Fire and Ice
by shercroftwatson
Summary: Sherlock is your not-so-typical troubled teenager in his final year of sixth form with a tendency to drive teachers away tearing their hair out. So when Dr. John Watson introduces himself as his new Biology teacher, needless to say, Sherlock is intrigued.
1. Chapter 1

Mycroft frowned for the fourth time that day. "Again?"

"I'm afraid so, sir." his assistant replied, avoiding all eye contact in order to not be at the end of Mycroft's foul mood.

Considering throwing a shoe at the face of one of his assistants in the hopes it would make him feel slightly better, instead Mycroft ran a hand over his face and sighed. "Fine, call a car around for me." he said with a dismissive hand-wave and heard footsteps hasten away on the stained wooden floors.

A quick glance to the painting above his desk, and another to the papers of urgent importance he knew were sitting neglected in the drawers of that desk, and one last shake of his head, before he grabbed his umbrella and left.

* * *

Sherlock scowled in the oversized uncomfortable leather chair and shifted against the lumpy stuffing of the armrests. Ridiculous.

"Mr Holmes has arrived," he hears a high voice announce and immediately mentally plans out all possible escape routes from the head-teacher's office. He is just contemplating the precise elevation angle needed to land onto the next building from the 7x10 single window when his brother enters the room.

Sherlock suddenly feels claustrophobic.

"Ah, Mr Holmes, thank you so much for coming in on such short notice" the plump greying man with the name of Mr Frays announces, and Sherlock entertains himself with the deduction of how _Mrs_ Frays is cheating on her husband with a fireman from East London.

"It was no trouble" Mycroft supplies with a tight smile and squinted eyes. He sits gingerly on the other uncomfortable chair propped directly perpendicular to Sherlock's and makes a point of not looking at his younger brother.

"As you probably already know, Sherlock has been issued with another suspension, this time of three days away from school."

Mycroft barely contains an eye-roll. "I am aware. I would appreciate knowing the reason for your decision." he questions.

Sherlock distracts himself from counting each individual square tile on the ceiling (56 and counting) and interrupts. "This is really of the most unnecessary-"

"Sherlock," Mycroft glances at him, eyes sharp and challenging. Sherlock scowls at him in return and continues talking.

"This is all because of me simply stating the truth. Mrs Jacobsen _does_ have alcoholic tendencies, she also does _not_ understand the syllabus, does _not_ know the meaning of cleanliness and is definitely a poor excuse for a teacher. I do not understand why I am encouraged to _not_ highlight the truth when a teacher obviously incapable of teaching is dictating to me the importance of something as elementary as _homework_ " Sherlock sits back in his seat with a wince at the uncomfortable backrest poking at his spine, turning back to glare at said opposing chair.

Mycroft stands from his equally uncomfortable seat and buttons his suit jacket, interrupting the spluttering head teacher from a predictable outburst at Sherlock's atrocious behaviour and gestures for Sherlock to stand and follow him. "I understand the situation, Mr Frays, I assume the suspension is active from today onwards?"

"I- well," the head-teacher harrumphs in displeasure. "Yes. It is." He stands behind his desk.

"Thank you, I will see to it that Sherlock does not stray from this arrangement." He smiles another false smiles and leads Sherlock out of the room without a chance for Mr Frays to respond.

* * *

The Holmeses exit via the main entrance and Sherlock purposefully hangs back as soon as they leave, shifting into the smoking area and fishing out a lighter from his coat pocket.

"Sherlock," Mycroft reprimands. "I believe we have had this discussion about smoking before. I believe we have also had discussions about your behaviour before. Must you be so tedious to force me to repeat myself every day?" he walks back over to his brother.

"It's not every-day, Mycroft, stop being so melodramatic" Sherlock taps the ash onto the floor and kicks it with the toe of his shoe.

"I am clearly not being melodramatic, since you have just been suspended for the second time this month. It is only the 10th."

With a sharp exhale of smoke, Sherlock yawns purposefully and turns his head away, clearly done with being in Mycroft's general presence or having to listen to anything he happens to say.

Considering giving up entirely and pulling out a cigarette of his own, Mycroft turns to the path again and begins walking towards the road where a car with tinted windows waits for them both.

With the prelude of heavy footsteps and laboured breath, Mycroft is chased down by a man with cropped hair and a striped blue tie blowing over the shoulder of his pressed white shirt. "Excuse me? Do you have the time?"

Mycroft turned to address the dishevelled man, only to be met with a soft exhale of "Oh, I-sorry," the man shook his head in what seemed to be confusion, and looked to the floor, then straight back into Mycroft's eyes.

"The time is 1:21" Mycroft replied without checking his watch.

The other man awoke from his daydream "Thank you, sorry...erm"

"Greg?" Another voice interrupted, another teacher exiting the school with her arms full of folders. "Aren't you supposed to be teaching now?" she questions.

 _Greg_ , Mycroft registers with vague interest.

Greg's eyes widen again, cursing quickly and thanking Mycroft once more before flying into the double doors of the school's reception and disappearing.

This is when Sherlock appears again, smelling of smoke and staring at Mycroft expectantly.

With another frown, Mycroft decides he has had enough of this place today and leads the way back to the car.

* * *

Sherlock stares pitifully at the ceiling and wishes for something interesting to happen in the next five minutes. Of course, nothing does, and he stays there with his thoughts for the next three hours.

* * *

 _Knock knock._

"Eat something." Mycroft's muffled voice demands through the door.

Sherlock scowls at the sound. "Go away."

He focuses of the sound of footsteps leading away into the library before he looks over to his collection of framed taxidermy spiders with a sigh.

* * *

Three days away from school, for Sherlock, is the worst punishment possible. He has barely anything to deduce to keep him occupied, having already inferred all knowledge possible about Mycroft's servants and secretaries and gained only boring unimportant information about adulterous crimes and strange sexual fetishes.

On the third day, he considers heading into town and immediately dismisses the thought. _Dull_.

With the final decision of breaking back into the school and spending the day in the chemistry lab he packs his coat pockets full of some of his best test-tubes, not intent on making do with the chipped school-provided ones; and leaves through the back door.

* * *

With well-practised ease, he slips in past a herd of younger students and blends into the crowd, surpassing the receptionist, turning up his coat collar and making a bee-line for the second floor steps.

 _Text Message: from Mycroft  
_ **What are you doing? MH**

Sherlock grins and shoves his phone down as far into his deep pocket as it will go, returning to picking the lock of the laboratory door.

He pushes the door-handle sharply up and then pushes down, the door springing open as he slides his tools back into his coat, heading straight for the hydrochloric acid.

When Sherlock returns home later on with singed eyebrows and fingertip holes burnt through his leather gloves, Mycroft simply raises an eyebrow and returns to his phone call with the prime-minister. 

* * *

Sherlock sees Mycroft again later on in the library, where he interrupts Sherlock's research into the world's most deadliest toxins.

The older Holmes brother entered silently, as he always did, though with eyes trained to the movements and speech of Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock sensed him immediately. He also deduced a change.

"You've been promoted" He stated into the silence.

"I have." Mycroft responded, settling into the chair opposite and straightening his pocket square.

"Aren't you hypothetically the British Government by now?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Slight exaggeration, Sherlock"

"No it's not," He said from behind his book, a quick glance up to his brother's face confirmed that he was right.

"I have to go away for a few days." Mycroft said eventually, dusting off invisible lint from his trousers.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. "North America"

Mycroft smiles mockingly, "South."

Sherlock scowls at him and then berates himself for allowing his brother to outsmart him. Again.

"Why are you telling me this?" Sherlock drawls, flipping a page nonchalantly.

"Because I don't want to have to fly home on an emergency jet because you cannot control yourself for more than two days without being reprimanded for something or other."

"It's not my fault everyone is so-"

"People _are_ dull, Sherlock. There is no getting around that fact, real people are just another one of those unfortunate things that we have to deal with in life."

"Boring" Sherlock stated, flipping over another page to make a point.

Mycroft silently agreed. "So, if you could try your hardest not to eviscerate anybody within the next three days, I would be much obliged." Mycroft squinted in the way that Sherlock knew was his brother's version of a smile.

"Laters" Sherlock states loudly, imitating slang in the hopes it would make Mycroft leave. It did, and he settled nicely back into his book of toxic chemicals.

* * *

Hearing the news of Mrs Jacobsen's inevitable refusal to teach the 'horrific Sherlock Holmes' any longer, Sherlock celebrated internally and simultaneously deflated, as this meant she was likely to be replaced with an even more unexciting and equally obese excuse for a teacher with their own predictable life troubles to accompany them.

So when Dr John Watson introduced himself to the class, first thing on a Friday morning, weather raging outside the shut wall of windows, needless to say Sherlock was surprised.

Surprised at the _difference_ of this seemingly unimpressive man.

 _Ex-army doctor. wounded in action. flesh wound. bullet through left shoulder. relieved from duty and straight back in to education, to convince himself he had purpose in life? Unmarried. Stumbled upon teaching. found this job through a mutual friend. Mr Stamford. Met through training in a hospital. Strained relationship with family..._

Sherlock frowned at the lack of data he was able to deduce from such a distance, his palms itched at the wish to know more about this stranger infiltrating his life.

"Okay, so I'd like you to pair up, please. It will just make this next task easier. Anyone pisses around with the bunsen burners, you're out. Got it?" Upon hearing the general murmur of agreement, he sent a satisfied nod to the students and returned to the seat behind his desk, hovering but not sitting down.

When Sherlock was predictably reminded that he would be working alone again by the vacant stares he was receiving from the eyes around him, he stretched back in his seat and then pulled his textbooks closer on his desk to send a clear message of the wish to be left alone.

When Dr Watson returned his sight to the class, and was met with the intense eyes of the infamous Sherlock Holmes, he startled. Realising that Sherlock was the only student without a pair, he frowned, but said nothing and launched into the explanation of the experiment.

* * *

John had tried extremely hard not to feel intimidated by his role of being elected as the new biology teacher of a class containing Sherlock Holmes. He'd heard about him, of course he had. The student from hell, apparently.

From first impressions, John didn't really see what the fuss was about. While a little intense and isolated, Sherlock wasn't the demon from hell he'd heard stories about and had been expecting. In fact, he hadn't heard a word from him for the first three lessons he had taught him for.

It was at the end of that third lesson, actually, that he'd even spoken to him directly at all.

It was a rule of thumb that most students were usually desperately running for the doors of the classroom as soon as the bell rang signalling the end of the class, but Sherlock waited until the end, distrustful of his surroundings and slow in movement.

John tried not to make it obvious he was watching the young man and turned his eyes to the papers on his desk students had handed in at the end of class. Sherlock in turn bought his paper up and slid it onto the top of the pile, pursing his lips with a frown when John thanked him.

He turned to leave and hesitated, his coat swinging around as he made dead eye-contact with John.

"You want to talk to me" he said, deep voice just on the edge of silk, completely without emotion and so downright true that John contemplated if he was hallucinating.

Dr Watson barely managed a confused 'huh' noise in reaction before Sherlock was crowding back around him, marching straight up to his desk.

"You want to talk to me but are considering whether to ask me to stay behind since there is no actual reason that I should be asked to stay after class." he narrowed his eyes. "You feel sorry for me"

This last statement made Sherlock seem more angered as his face scrunched up in accusation. John shook his head, wondering if his face was such an open book or if this was the way that Sherlock generally communicated, forceful and intrusive.

"Why?" he demanded. "You don't know me."

"Mr Holmes," John started, "Sit down please"

"Why should you care?" he repeated again in rapid fire questioning, not budging from the spot his feet were mounted on.

"Mr Holmes-"

"Sherlock." he said. "Mr Holmes is my brother." he said with a voice full of disgust.

"Okay...Sherlock. Take a seat." John was suddenly aware of how small he felt stood next to Sherlock. The teen was skinny, just on the edge of lanky, with an angular face and alien-liken features. Somehow, this didn't make him look as entirely unattractive as it should have.

Sherlock sniffed and sat backwards on to one of the lab chairs, crossing his legs and raking his eyes over John to the point where he felt self-conscious.

"Which other A-levels do you take? Apart from Biology?" John inquired.

"Chemistry, Physics, Forensics, Philosophy."

"Five?!" John exclaimed. "I didn't know it was possible to take five A-levels." he frowned.

Sherlock merely blinked in response and turned his head towards the window.

"Do you have many friends in this class?" John asked finally, to which Sherlock's head snapped back around to face him.

" _Friends?_ " he scoffed. "I don't have friends."

"You...don't have friends?" John repeated.

"Yes. Do try to keep up." he snapped.

"Do not take that tone with me," John raised his voice slightly, to which Sherlock had no reaction, and turned his gaze back to the open window.

John sighed. "How are you finding the class so far?"

"Mildly stimulating" Sherlock drawled.

"Okay. Okay, good. That's good" John swallowed, not sure how to respond. What was going through this man's mind?

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't be so tiresome as to ask me to repeat myself" Sherlock sighed.

John paused. "Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you-"

"I thought so" Sherlock smirked to himself.

"Right," John patted his knees and stood, lifting the stool he was sitting on and shoving it back behind the tables. "Okay, well, I just wanted to know you were okay, I suppose" John scratched his head. If he was honest with himself, he didn't even know why he'd wanted to speak to Sherlock alone, was it to see if he lived up to the hype? To see if he matched all those rumours floating around the staff room?

Sherlock stood without a word, burying his hands in his pockets and heading for the exit.

"Are you?" Dr Watson called, last minute, before Sherlock opened the door.

"Am I what?" he replied, monotonous.

"Okay? that is."

Sherlock watched him for a few seconds, and then pushed down the handle. "How would I possibly know that?" he questioned, and then left with a click of the shutting door, leaving Dr John Hamish Watson completely and utterly confused.

* * *

John spent the rest of the afternoon in a daze.

As soon as he entered the staff room there were eyes on him. He headed straight over to the coffee machine, brushing shoulders with Greg Lestrade who instantly asked him what all of the other teachers were probably thinking.

"Oh hey John, how's it going mate? How's your new biology class going?"

"You mean the one with Sherlock Holmes in, right?"

Greg nodded, munching on a biscuit he'd just dipped in his tea.

John pulled a face to himself, trying to think of an accurate word to describe Sherlock Holmes. "It's...different " he supplied. "I don't really know what to expect if I'm honest, mate" John ran a hand over his face.

"Yeah I get that, I'm his tutor" Greg said with a laugh. "You'll get used to him eventually."

"Really?" John lead him over to the blue chairs in the corner, next to Mike Stamford.

"The thing is about Sherlock Holmes," he starts, "is you'll never really know if you're teaching him or if he is teaching you"

"That's a pretty accurate description" Mike interrupts. "Have trouble with Holmes, John?"

"He's not as bad as everyone told me he would be" John reasoned with them both.

"Give it another week" Greg laughed to Mike, raising his mug in the air.

Mike laughed and nodded back to him.

John worried at his lip with his teeth and let his head fall back in his seat, trying to push down the panic swirling around in his stomach.

* * *

Sherlock immerses himself in Dr John Watson from the second he leaves the classroom, fingers typing relentlessly on his mobile phone trying to find anything and everything on this man.

He finds an old army portrait, a news article published 3 years earlier, and a personal blog that has been password protected for 10 months or less.

Instead of attempting to hack into the blog (he still needed a bit more practise in online hacking skills, annoyingly), he sat back on the stairs at the back entrance of the building near the car park and reflected on their conversation in the classroom.

Dr Watson had shown unexpected caretaker qualities towards Sherlock, which threw his deductions off-guard. No teacher had ever asked him if he was 'okay', the thing that threw Sherlock off even more was that he wasn't even sure how to respond to that question. _Irrelevant._

Sherlock had also deduced that Dr Watson had only recently recovered slightly from a psychosomatic limp, associated with his injury in Afghanistan. _Obvious._ Although the man still had a slight uncertainty to his step.

Sherlock tried to tame the numerous codes of data whizzing around his brain by recognising them and storing them in a new file created in his mind palace for his new biology teacher Dr John H Watson. _What does the H stand for?_

Becoming overwhelmed with information and frustrated at himself for not being able to handle it or store it effectively, Sherlock headed out the double doors into the drizzle of rain, to light a cigarette and pretend that today had not happened.

* * *

John eventually escaped questioning an hour later, patted his pockets down for his car keys and ran to avoid the automatic doors closing on him as he dashed to the car park in the steady rain.

He caught the sight of a figure out the corner of his eye, a tall man in a dark coat pressed with his back solidly against the brick wall of the back building. John had to squint through the rain to see if he recognised him.

Surprised to see anybody that wasn't a teacher around at this time after-school at all, John startled slightly when he recognised the alabaster skin and dripping wet dark curls, head angled away and exhaling a cloud of smoke.

For a reason he couldn't fathom, John barely held himself back from marching straight back over to Sherlock, but instead clambered into his car and turned on the windscreen wipers.

Sat sodden in his damp clothes, John watched from afar as Sherlock stamped out a cigarette underneath his shoe, turned up his collar against the wind and rain and stalked away towards the main road, a silent and lone stick figure in the haze of stormy weather.

* * *

"Why are you phoning me? We never phone each other" Sherlock accused as soon as he picked up the phone to his brother's caller ID.

"Could you get something from my desk?" Mycroft bounced back.

"Oh, so that's why. You're using me for something. Predictable."

"Sherlock-"

"I'm going. Do try not to have a heart attack, we both know how high your blood pressure is from all of those fatty acids you've been consuming. Putting on weight again are we?" Sherlock grinned to himself as he climbed the small staircase to Mycroft's office on the top floor, sliding his hand along the mahogany hand rest.

"Losing it," Mycroft snapped in return "Have you finished being irritating yet?"

"What do you want?"

"There's a key for my desk in my-"

"In the paper sleeve of your hardback cover of Moby Dick, third shelf on the wall by the sofa." Sherlock provided with a smug undertone to his voice, and Mycroft pretended not to be surprised that Sherlock knew this already.

"The folder entitled 'Correspondence'" Mycroft supplied, and Sherlock hears rustling and muffled voices in the background of the call and goes towards the locked drawer in Mycroft's desk.

"Yes?" He prompts impatiently, finding the folder.

"What is the time and date at the top of the fourth paper from the bottom"

"How very particular of you," Sherlock commented, sifting through the pile. "10:53 3rd of August 2009"

Mycroft scrawled down the information. "Interesting."

"Is that it? Do you have what you need to blackmail some country or other now?"

"No, but I do now have the potential to sentence a corrupt political leader in Islamabad to exile. How was school?"

"Fine."

"Did you-"

"Mycroft"

"I know, goodbye"

"Yes", Sherlock ended the call and tossed the phone onto the leather upright button-embellished sofa in Mycroft's overcrowded office.

Sherlock found his eyes wandering to the painting of a portrait of their parents above Mycroft's desk that he was almost always automatically drawn to. He scoffed. _Sentiment._

He allowed himself a moment of missing his mother, trying to block out the perfunctory hand of his father's that rests on her shoulder. It was easier to pretend that he wasn't the reason the Holmes family was such a mess. Deceased parents and a pretentious, unrelenting older brother to deal with, _thanks, Father_.

* * *

Returning to school on a Monday morning and being greeted by the usual slurs of 'freak', 'psychopath' and 'weirdo ' was to Sherlock, predictable and tiresome beyond belief.

The one thing that surprised Sherlock, however, was the appearance of Dr Watson in the corridor, and the apparent anger on his face when he'd heard them. In fact, he had immediately loudly ordered a large rugby player to get to his lesson unless he wanted to be sent to the head's office for 'bullying'.

Pressed back against a wall of lockers, Sherlock sank deeper in his confusion of the enigma of this short man with his protective gaze over Sherlock.

John looked up after sending a student that was taller and definitely stronger than he was scurrying away instantly. For the third time, his eyes fell upon the steady gaze of Sherlock Holmes, the heady atmosphere in the air tense and thick, making it difficult to breathe, and John cursed himself for feeling so weak around a student.

Sherlock watched him duck into a classroom at last, wishing with every bone in his body that he could follow after him and question everything under the sun in the hopes of understanding this man. Because Sherlock wanted to unravel his mind, bury himself in the synapses and nerve endings of Dr John H Watson's brain and _understand_.

He needed to know why seeing him made his mind blank and deductions felt like he was desperately grasping at straws or forcing his mind through a garlic press. Sherlock wanted to know if everyone had this problem with Dr Watson, did everybody become so poisoned with confusion and contempt at the increase of heart rate for no logical reason?

"Sherlock?"

Anger rose to his chest at being disturbed, nevertheless he turned to be met with the face of Lestrade. "What?"

"You missed your tutor period with me on Thursday. Are you free now?" Greg stood with his arms crossed, hoping it made him look more authoritive, the only way to manage Sherlock, he knew from experience, was to annoy him until he complied.

"Fine," he hissed, muttering under his breath about the unimportance and irrelevance of tutor sessions. He followed Lestrade up to his classroom and slumped into his usual seat opposite his tutor's.

"So," Greg began, pulling out Sherlock's folder from his desk. "How have things been?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "You've just been dumped by your adulterous long-term girlfriend."

He watched as emotion flickered across Lestrade's face and then sat entertaining the weaknesses of sentiment.

"Sherlock," he hissed. "What have I told you about inappropriate deductions?"

Sherlock appeared to think for a moment, trying to recall the conversation. "I don't know, I must have deleted it."

Greg pulled out Sherlock's progress reports and sighed. "How are your lessons? Are you finding them challenging enough?"

A scoff in return, "Barely" Sherlock picked at the wood of the table in front of him with his fingernails and refused eye contact.

"You are way above target for all five lessons. Impressive, as always." Greg thought aloud, flicking through more documents in the plastic sleeve.

"Yes, it would be impressive, to _you_." Greg pointedly ignored the attack at his intelligence and chose instead to move on to Sherlock's punishments.

"You've been suspended three times already this term. Not really a good start, is it?"

"None of which were my fault, might I add. I was just pointing out the truth to those who are too blind to see it." Sherlock protested.

"Just because you deem something to be true, doesn't mean it is, Sherlock" Greg argued.

Sherlock gave him a look in return so bewildered that it was like Greg had just told him the sky was green and the world was ruled by aliens.

"How is your biology class now that you have driven away Mrs Jacobsen?"

Sherlock's mind immediately returned to John Watson. If he was being honest, he really wasn't sure how to respond to Lestrade's question.

"You've got Dr Watson now, right? He's a nice guy, good teacher too." Lestrade nodded to himself. "Have you driven him spare yet?"

"No," Sherlock started.

Greg looked up for a second. "So...you're saying that biology is actually going okay?"

Sherlock grimaced at his shoes and actually came to terms with the truth. "It is, actually." He fiddled with his hands.

"Hmm," Greg paused, "Well, that's brilliant, keep it up."

The rest of the session was spent going over plans for university which Sherlock deemed as 'tedious and unimportant' and sat unresponsive for a few minutes before lapsing into his recent findings on the world's deadliest toxins when Lestrade had asked him about it.

With each tutor appointment, Greg felt like he was getting closer to understanding this isolated genius, rude as he may be, he was still human, and Greg felt like he had achieved something whenever he saw a glimpse of that human side leak out every once in a while.

* * *

Sherlock found himself in the chemistry lab after school again on the same day that Dr Watson had defended him from the stupidity of other students.

He was just jotting down notes from his observations of the breaking down of chemical compounds when the cleaner entered, propping the door open with her mop. The petite old woman was startled to see Sherlock, a silent and unmoving presence in the dimly lighted room, but her eyes lit up with recognition when Sherlock lifted his head.

"Oh hello, dear" she cooed, pulling in her cleaning trolley.

"Mrs Hudson," he acknowledged with a nod.

"Are you here dissecting animals again?"

"No, not this time." he squinted at the gritty particles gathering at the bottom of his test-tube.

She hobbled over with interest, and Sherlock deduced that her hip was giving her trouble again.

"Are you taking that medication I suggested?" he demanded as soon as she drew near to him.

"I was, but I seem to have lost them again, you know how I am" she chuckled to herself and went about spritzing surfaces with disinfectant, tutting at the cluster of equipment Sherlock had occupied the entire desk with.

"Sherlock," she scolded, noticing the puddle on the floor where green liquid had seeped down the side of the bench. "The mess you've made"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and ripped a paper towel off the roll on her trolley, bending and wiping it up in a single motion. "There, happy?"

"Oh, yes" she laughed again, a high tinkling sound. "Thank you, dear. You know how I can't bend down when my hip gets bad like this" she speaks to herself, tapping her hip and moving around with the cleaning solution again.

Sherlock hummed to himself in vague distraction, bringing focus instead to the results of his experiment.

"Oh Sherlock, dear?" Mrs Hudson called from the other room. "Could you give me a hand with this? I can' t reach it."

Sherlock lifted himself from the chair, pushing his microscope away and entering the store room where some of the equipment was kept. He reached for the jar she wanted in one fluid movement without stretching, passed it back down to her for her to dust and then placed it back on the top shelf.

"Why do they let it get so dusty? There were cobwebs hanging off of that one... oh dear."

"Dust is eloquent, Mrs Hudson" Sherlock replied in his deep droning voice to which she chuckled at again and returned to her trolley.

Eleven minutes later, Sherlock's stomach rumbles, which annoys him. "Shut up"

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson scolded, "Have you eaten anything today?"

"Irrelevant" he frowned, adjusting the lens on the microscope.

He watched Mrs Hudson limp back over to her trolley out the corner of his eye and produce biscuits from her bag. "As usual then," she supplied, and slid the packet down the bench to him.

Sherlock took the packet without a word and ate for Mrs Hudson's sake, until she smiled with triumph and moved on to clean the sinks.

* * *

Sherlock crashes that night, he lies on the floor for 5 hours until his back is stiff and thinks, thinks, _thinks._

He'd expected a text from Mycroft anytime soon, who probably knew Sherlock's thoughts from across the stupid wide world _because Mycroft knows everything and just loves to point it out._

He considered for the fifth time that night, going out to purchase something to keep his brain from tearing him apart. Something that would slow him down, would let him rest and give him the answers he never knew he needed.

But he'd promised Mummy.

Instead, he lit five cigarettes at once and attempted smoking them together, nowhere near the same high, but enough to send his brain spinning and glue him even further to the floor as the nicotine sank into his bloodstream.

 _Text Message: Mycroft_  
 **Don't do anything stupid. MH**

Sherlock stared even harder at the ceiling, wondering what the definition of stupid was to his brother, and who Mycroft must have paid extra to keep an eye on him while he was gone. Which one of the servants was Mycroft's messenger?

Sherlock stumped out the half finished cigarettes, rolled over and vomited in disorientation, the face of John Watson flashing tauntingly before his eyes before he passed out.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't in John's class on Monday, and he found himself missing the sarcastic commentaries that he sometimes muttered under his breath from the front row that usually only John could hear. It was true that the class was quiet without him, not only because the students had nothing to laugh at or taunt, they sat stoically and copied notes from the board.

* * *

Two days later, John stared blearily at the bottom of his empty cup, sliding around the remaining sugary contents of his tea.

"You okay, mate?" he vaguely registered Greg's voice bringing his mind into consciousness and shook himself out of a daydream.

"Wha- yeah, sorry, in a world of my own" John sighed at himself and stabbed a finger at the coffee machine, pushing his empty cup underneath the nozzle.

"Late night, last night?" Greg smirked at him, leaning cross-armed against the column next to the machine.

John dismissed him with a frown, laughing away speculation. "For all the wrong reasons unfortunately," he re-takes his cup "Was up marking papers until one"

Greg tutted at him, suggesting something about organisation and dawdled off to his office to make a phone call to a parent. Or at least that's what John thought he said he was going to do. If he was entirely honest, he couldn't remember where the hell _he_ was supposed to be at that moment, let alone anybody else.

With a quick check to his timetable, he saw that he had a free period and thanked his lucky stars, scooping up his box of folders and ignoring the shoot of pain his leg sent him, a tell tale sign that it was getting worse again.

When he entered his classroom, managing to deposit his box on his desk and fall back into his chair before he collapsed from exhaustion, he eventually realised a difference.

There was someone else in the room.

In Sherlock's usual seat, there was a mop of dark curls face down in crossed arms on the desk in front of him, the boy's back rising and falling softly with a faint grumbling sound of a snore.

John frowned, why was Sherlock asleep in his classroom? Alarm bells in his head told him he should contact somebody and complain for a strike to be put on his record since he really shouldn't be sleeping in classrooms, let alone vacant ones, but the more dominant voice in his head told him not to.

Instead, he stood confused for a few minutes, watching the sleeping form of Sherlock Holmes and contemplated his sanity.

"Sherlock?" He decided to wake him, "Sherlock, wake up.", with a hesitant shake to his shoulder, Sherlock snapped awake immediately, startled at his surroundings.

"What?" he asked immediately, as if John were the one in _Sherlock's_ classroom.

"Why are you asleep in a science classroom?" John crossed his arms.

"I don't remember" he frowned, straightening out his shirt.

John's eyes fell to the way the creases smoothed out under his fingertips, stretched over solid chest muscles. He shook his head. "You can't do that," he insisted.

Sherlock squinted at him, that look that made John feel instantly panicked, as if his mind were being read by the genius that very second.

"Where were you on Monday's lesson?" John inquired, walking back over to his desk as Sherlock stood.

"At home" He wandered to the back of the classroom.

"So you just decided not to come in? You're missing important lessons"

"I'm already ahead of the syllabus" he yawned, examining the rusting clasps of the bunsen burners shoved in the corner drawer.

John didn't even question that, "Still, your absences will go on your record" he threatened half-heartedly.

"I don't care" Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"Of course you don't" John smiled to himself.

Sherlock is silent for the next two minutes, embracing the presence of Dr Watson and suspicious of how comfortable he feels around him.

"Don't you have a lesson?" John asked after a while, hoping Sherlock would say no.

"No," he hesitated. "Is this...okay?" Sherlock asked, hoping he would understand.

John lifted his head, registering the uncertainty splayed across the young man's face. "Of course"

Sherlock settled back, then, and John had to stop himself from grasping the opportunity of turning this into some kind of interview to find out more about the enigma of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock watched him.

"Interesting," he said after a while, and John lifted his head with a questioning expression. "You are nervous."

"No...I'm not" John replied, thinking _Yes, I am._

Sherlock stood immediately, "Do I make you nervous?"

John swallowed, staying firmly planted to his seat. "Why would you make me nervous?"

Sherlock frowned in return, moving closer to Dr Watson's desk. "I don't know. That's the frustrating part"

John blinked at him, surprised at the comfort he felt with having Sherlock so close. Simultaneously appalled with himself for letting himself feel like this with a _student._ Sherlock was a _student._ He withdrew from the closeness.

"Sweaty palms, fidgeting, lack of eye-contact" Sherlock deduced out loud and then stopped abruptly at the look on his teacher's face. "Sorry, I... is this inappropriate?"

John cleared his throat, not looking at his student. "Yes,"

Sherlock deduced the teacher's discomfort and withdrew himself, snapping back his mask of cool indifference and stepping out of the room, walking briskly away without looking back.

* * *

As soon as the door closed behind Sherlock, John let out a huge breath. His pulse was racing with anticipation and excitement and everything else that John probably shouldn't be feeling.

He had never had such an interest in a student before, even just generally. His job gave him purpose in his previously lone life and he took the good days along with the bad, but he had never singled any student out. Then what was he doing with Sherlock?

 _Breathe._

All John knew was that Sherlock was a locked door, an occasional peek through the keyhole allowed some of his brilliance to shine through, but not knowing whatever was on the other side of that door made it difficult to know if Sherlock was ever being himself, ever being truthful. He shut out John's attempt at questioning him, about himself, about his work or anything that he deemed unimportant.

John found himself wondering if it was just the mystery that attracted his interest in Sherlock Holmes...he had never felt... _romantically_ interested in a student before, and he didn't even think he was romantically interested in Sherlock, he was just generally drawn in by him.

Sherlock, John decided, was like a solitary storm, dark and grey but full of flashes of light and intensity, he drew John in with his darkness, with his potential of destruction. But John was always on the outside. However much he wanted to be let in.


	2. Chapter 2

John's Wednesday morning free periods slowly but surely became infected with Sherlock Holmes' silent presence, he entered at 9:01 and left at 9:52, right on schedule, every week like clockwork. In fact, John found himself so used to Sherlock's schedule of appearances he even began bringing two cups of coffee with him to his classroom each week. Sherlock soundlessly accepted the steaming mug from him every Wednesday with a slight incline of his head in a grateful nod and took his usual seat on the front row, pouring over books, examining slides under microscopes, or writing extra papers for John to mark for him.

When it became close to next period, Sherlock stood and hitched his satchel over his shoulder, brushing shoulders with John as he lay down his empty mug next to his and left John with the smell of aftershave and faint cigarette smoke in a temporary cloud until his next class came pouring in.

* * *

John was handing back past-papers, winding around the science benches and placing people's papers brandished with red or green pen, grades circled with marker.

He passed Sherlock at the end, sliding his paper onto his desk where his long fingers were taking his pen apart, piece by piece.

"Brilliant, as always. Well done, Sherlock" he praised him quietly and moved on to the next student, as Sherlock looked down at his A* with inexpressive eyes, sliding it into the back compartment of his satchel.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

He lifted his head.

"Do your parents know that you smoke?"

"My parents are dead" Sherlock replied, blinking back at John.

John apologised hesitantly, berating himself internally, and Sherlock responded with the tiniest of sad smiles, but John thinks that it's progress. They returned to comfortable silence.

* * *

Mycroft returns at the end of the week, and Sherlock is annoyed to have his presence lurking around the house once more. He is also trying harder than ever to keep his thoughts inaccessible, not wanting his brother to find out about Dr Watson yet. Dr Watson was _Sherlock's_ secret.

"Sherlock, where is my shoe horn?" Mycroft called.

"How would I know?" Sherlock replied with irritation evident in his voice.

"I thought you knew everything," Mycroft taunted in response and Sherlock marched over to the umbrella stand in the next room and pulled out said shoe horn, throwing it at his brother's head.

Mycroft frowned at his brother's rudeness, catching it mid-air and replying with a sarcastic and over-exaggerated "Thank you" to which Sherlock stomped back to his own room.

* * *

Sherlock had just left the chemistry lab at 5:52pm, supposing that reception staff had left by now, he headed for an alternative exit. Mrs Hudson had been more chipper today, Sherlock had deduced it definitely had something to do with her new lover she'd managed to secure three days ago at a bingo game in West London but not mentioned anything about it.

Sherlock fiddled with a loose thread hanging from his sleeve and focused on the direction of his feet until he heard an additional set of irregular footsteps behind him and turned.

"Hi, Sherlock" Dr Watson called out, chequered shirt tucked under thick oatmeal jumper and a sandalwood coloured satchel slung over his right shoulder, bulging with textbooks and ungraded papers.

"Dr Watson" Sherlock acknowledged, unconsciously slowing his steps to walk in tandem with his teacher.

"Why are you in school this late?" John asked, looking over to Sherlock who has his head hanging down, black curls falling forward from his pale forehead.

"I usually stay later than this," Sherlock started. "But Mycroft has insisted I come home for 5:30 at the latest today."

"Mycroft?" John asked with interest, as they approached the end of the corridor.

"My brother" Sherlock supplied, voice dripping with disdain.

"Oh," John stretched his hand by his side. "I didn't know you had one"

Sherlock glanced at him, knowing that his teacher had probably forgotten that Sherlock had told him about Mycroft in their first conversation, and then put his hands in his pockets. "You don't know much about me, Dr Watson."

"That's true," John agreed, pushing open the door to the back entrance, using his electronic key card to unlock the automatic doors and holding the door open for Sherlock. "You do realise it is past 5:30?"

Sherlock slid underneath Dr Watson's arm that held the door open and was immediately hit with bitter cold winter air. "Of course I do"

"You're being late on purpose?" Sherlock noticed a look of confusion pass Dr Watson's face.

"Yes" Sherlock supplied without explanation.

John shook his head and carried on walking, only noticing Sherlock's absence when he realised only the sound of his own footsteps now hit the ground. He turned to see him lighting a cigarette against the wall.

"You shouldn't smoke" John scolds, and Sherlock laughs.

"How endearing" Sherlock took his first drag and pushed forward off the wall, moving closer to the projection of John's body heat.

"What is?"

"You. Trying to sound authoritive, it's entertaining." Sherlock smirked at him and exhales in a curl of white smoke, hanging in the air and then drifting away.

John frowned to himself "I am authoritive"

Sherlock gave him a look.

"Okay, maybe not to you, but you don't find anybody intimidating. I'm authoritive to others." John insisted, and Sherlock noticed the way Dr Watson's arms come to fold close against his chest to give the illusion of height and power.

Sherlock offered out his cigarette between his fingers. John shakes his head.

"I don't smoke," he reacts. "Plus, it would be kind of inappropriate"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Dull"

"What is?"

"Rules."

John found himself laughing a little hysterically, as Sherlock allowed his lips to stretch slowly into a smile in response.

Eventually, Sherlock stamped out his cigarette on the ground and kicked the trodden filter into a gutter, flicking his coat about until his collar came up around his neck, framing his face in a way that prompted John to look at it for a little longer than he should have.

"How are you getting home?" John asked when they reached the cars.

"Walking," Sherlock slid his hands into his pockets and pulled out his new leather gloves, slipping them onto his frozen fingers.

"In this weather? You'll freeze to death" John insisted with a chatter to his teeth, hands rubbing together to trap the warmth in.

"Highly unlikely, the statistical likelihood of death from fr-"

"Sherlock, how far away do you live?"

Sherlock stopped, narrowing his eyes momentarily "about half an hour's walk"

John thinks he is doing the responsible thing by considering giving a student a lift home, bearing in mind it was late and getting dark, and nobody is safe walking home alone in the dark, not even Sherlock. This is what he tries to convince himself as he asks Sherlock if he would like a lift home.

"Why?" Sherlock questioned suspiciously.

"Because you shouldn't be walking home on your own at this time of night. If you feel uncomfortable with being in a car alone with me then I can contact somebody who can come and pick you up, or call a taxi, if you'd like-"

"But why?"

John paused, "What do you mean, why?"

"Why do you care?" Sherlock looked genuinely confused with the concept that John cared about his wellbeing, which made the teacher internally curse whatever made Sherlock feel like he was so alone in this world.

"Why shouldn't I? It's freezing out here, stop being so damn irritating and get in." John unlocked the car with his key-fob and climbed into the driver's seat, wiping the condensation from the windscreen with a sponge tucked in the holder at his right.

Sherlock sat tentatively down on the seat next to his teacher, yanking his seatbelt across and providing his address when John asked for it.

They sat in another one of their comfortable silences until John gestured to the radio, telling Sherlock to put on what he would like. "I don't care much for the music of today" Sherlock replied quietly.

John leant over and jabbed at the buttons with his free hand, "Nonsense, there's loads on here. You're bound to find something you like." John skipped over the channels until Sherlock's hand stopped him, pressing the back button onto _Classics FM_ at hearing the passing notes of a violin.

Both men resolutely ignore the brush of fingertips that the radio decisions had caused, John listening intently to the new genre of music that Sherlock had introduced him to.

"Just here will do," Sherlock gestured to the side road, unfastening his seat belt as John pulls up around the corner from his house. "Thank you, Dr Watson."

John winced, "You don't have to be so formal all the time, 'Dr Watson' makes me feel so old" he laughed, half serious, half joking.

Sherlock stopped, turning his head back to his teacher. "What would you rather me call you? Sir?"

John shook his head, "No," he hesitates, and then jumps straight off the diving board and into the deep end. "You can call me John"

With a pause of uncertainty, Sherlock watched Dr Watson's face for signs of regret or repulsion, but there are none, only calmness with an open and trusting expression which scared Sherlock just a little bit.

"John," he repeated back to him, and John tried to ignore the fact that he likes the sound of his name coming from Sherlock's mouth.

John nodded, and Sherlock blinked back at him, before turning his head away and pushing down the door handle, stepping back out into the cold.

* * *

Mycroft says nothing to him on his return, he'd expected Sherlock to be late and as usual, he was right to predict so.

"Are we going?" Sherlock asked, ripping off his scarf and tossing it over the chair.

"Yes, it starts in an hour" Mycroft responded absently, flicking through a stapled document of 121 pages.

Sherlock goes straight upstairs, forcing himself to keep his brain in semi-structured order instead of what was actually happening inside his head.

 _John. John, John, John. John._

He slid off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt in a haste, yanking at the zip of his trousers until he was stood in his boxers in front of the mirror, staring at the wide uncertain eyes in the reflection. His eyes slid down the pale expanse of his own skin, muscled in places, smooth and flat in others, smatterings of hair around scars, blemishes and marks of blush, the blush rising straight to his cheeks.

 _Blush?_

Sherlock grunted, snapping himself out of it. Such a _human_ reaction.

He dressed quickly afterwards, opting for a pale blue shirt and his second favourite suit.

"Sherlock- wear a tie", Mycroft called from downstairs.

"No!" He shouted back in defiance.

"I'm sure the opera won't miss you, then" the calm voice sounded closer as Mycroft walks upstairs, heading for his own room.

Sherlock cursed under his breath and reaches for his only tie, skinny black patterned silk, one his mother had bought him years ago for his birthday after he had started to dress up in suits similar to his father's and Mycroft's.

Mycroft knocked and entered. "Much better."

"Irritating", he fiddled with the knot at his throat.

"Let's go"

* * *

John sat at home on a Thursday night and drowned his sorrows with a pint of beer and the discography of Bon Jovi. He didn't realise how deeply he was hooked, until it hit him that he might be attracted to one of his own students. And however hard he tried to convince himself it was wrong, he couldn't stop seeing Sherlock's face every-time he closed his eyes to block out the blinding light.

 _Shit._

* * *

To: Greg Lestrade  
 _Have you ever got through to Sherlock before?_

From: Greg Lestrade  
 **I wish. Why do you ask?**

To: Greg Lestrade  
 _Just wondering. Do you think he's lonely?_

John stared at the ceiling and realised that he'd probably drank too much, and probably shouldn't be discussing a student via text to another teacher, but he trusted Greg, and he knew he wouldn't tell anybody.

From: Greg Lestrade  
 **Probably. I've given up trying to understand or help him, he won't accept it.**

John takes a minute to reply, in the process receiving another text from Greg.

From: Greg Lestrade  
 **Are you having trouble with him? Do you need me to speak to him?**

To: Greg Lestrade  
No, it will be fine. Just curious mate.

From: Greg Lestrade  
 **Aren't we all.**

* * *

Sherlock found himself anticipating Wednesday more than ever.

John tried not to think too hard about the strong smell of aftershave and cigarette smoke missing from his classroom.

* * *

Sherlock entered and walked straight over to John, who was slumped over his desk wearing reading glasses that slid down his nose persistently every time he straightened them.

"Morning, Sherlock"

"John," Sherlock nodded to him, and John checks the door is closed, so nobody can hear the agreed use of his first name by one of his students.

"Don't worry, I took care of it" Sherlock reassured him, and John startled at the psychic speed he had answered John's thoughts.

"I probably shouldn't have given you that permission" John reflected, worrying his lip between his teeth absently as Sherlock pulled a stool over to his desk and sits to the side reading equations from the whiteboard.

"Would you like to relinquish it?" Sherlock deadpans, not showing any signs of being phased by John's outward sense of regret.

John pulled his glasses away from his face, waiting for Sherlock to look back to him. "No...as long as you are aware of situations in not to use my first name"

"I'm not stupid, John." Sherlock informed him.

"I know that," John smiled.

"Good," Sherlock smirked to himself, pulling over the Biology textbook that John is using. "I'm glad."

"Glad?!" John repeated incredulously. "Sherlock Holmes is capable of emotion?"

Sherlock glared at him and shut the textbook with a snap, "I'm capable of hatred, too, you know" he hinted.

John settled back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. "You could never hate me"

"Couldn't I?" Sherlock challenged.

The tension in the air was thick as Sherlock returned to the front bench of the classroom, sliding backwards onto the table and letting his long legs dangle out in front, leaning back on his arms.

John tried so desperately hard not to let his eyes follow downwards when Sherlock's shirt lifts and exposes the tiniest show of pale skin, his hipbone jutting out from his skinny frame.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow without saying a word, and John turned so bright red he practically shrunk in on himself, hoping to God that Sherlock wouldn't point it out.

He doesn't. In fact, when John looks back to him, his gaze is intense and involved. "I don't think I could, actually." fingers skittering across the worktop.

John heard his breath hitch before feeling it. "Couldn't what?"

"Hate you," Sherlock bounces back. "And I have no idea why."

"That's a good thing, isn't it?" John tapped his pen steadily against his leg.

Sherlock clasped his hands together, positioning them in a steeple underneath his chin. "I haven't decided yet."

* * *

Sherlock misses another two and a half lessons in the next week, and John is concerned by the content that he is missing, no matter how much of a genius he claims to be.

This is partly the reason why he decides to corner him the upcoming Wednesday.

"You need to attend catch-up sessions" John insisted, as soon as Sherlock entered the room.

Sherlock's jaw actually dropped open. "Tell me you're joking"

John raised an eyebrow, holding out Sherlock's coffee mug regardless.

"John," he hissed, keeping his voice down due to the open door. "Those classes are for imbeciles! I refuse to be deemed as the same standard as the scum of the school."

John sighed, "Sherlock-"

"No!" he practically stomped, shouting in defiance.

"Calm down!" he raised his voice above Sherlock's, "Sit down."

Sherlock proved his point by marching over to the window instead.

"If it's this much of a problem, I can privately tutor your catch up sessions?" John suggested.

Sherlock considered this. "So I wouldn't have to deal with people?"

"Nope, just me"

 _Just John._ "Fine."

"Don't sound too excited" John added sarcastically, flinging an elastic band from his desk onto Sherlock's mop of curls where he is still looming at the window. He turned with a face of disdain and flinged the elastic band straight back to John.

* * *

Their first catch up session began with ten minutes spent trying to get Sherlock to actually take the whole concept seriously. John made him sit in his Biology class seat and get his refill pad out to take notes. Sherlock stated that he never makes notes, that he doesn't need to, his brain will register the important areas. John ended up explaining three times to Sherlock that some things Sherlock might deem _unimportant_ areas are the bits he needs to know to pass the exam and actually get an A level in Biology.

John eventually gets him to shut up, and begins to move around the white board, drawing diagrams for mitosis and going back over the processes Sherlock had missed in his absence. The only problem was that Sherlock interrupted him every two minutes by finishing John's sentences for him, if only to prove a point, that he didn't need these catch up sessions at all.

"Have we established that I am fine without these sessions yet?" Sherlock groaned, face down on the table where he sat.

"It's better to be safe than sorry, I want to know I'm doing my job properly by making sure you understand the syllabus requirements."

"I know the syllabus like the back of my hand"

John put his hands on his hips in defeat for a moment, "You know what, I think we need a break for now anyway." He walked straight over to his bag and pulled out a litre bottle of water, uncapping the bottle and wetting his tongue that was dry from talking.

Sherlock watched him as usual, silent and furtive until disturbed by John with a question, or until he thought of a question himself to ask John.

"So, what are you doing when you get home tonight?" John asked finally, snapping the genius out of his brainstorm..

"I imagine I will irritate my brother for a while and then retire to the library and lie on the floor for a while. Who knows"

With a pitying glance towards his student, John took a leap. "That doesn't sound very fun, don't you have a girlfriend or anyone to go meet up with?"

Sherlock turned slowly as if suspicious he was being tested, staring at the man in front of him for a moment before shaking his head. "Not really my area."

John didn't quite know how to respond to this, until he realised his mistake. "Oh...do you have a boyfriend, then?"

"No," Sherlock noticed the faint embarrassment John felt. "I do not have a boyfriend."

"Unattached then," John nodded, turning in a circle and walking back to his desk, saying under his breath "Just like me" and half hoping Sherlock had heard it.

He did.

* * *

"Excuse me, Dr Watson? Could I speak to Sherlock Holmes, please?" the head-teacher entered with a paler face than usual, and John felt himself go slightly pale at the thought of what Sherlock possibly could have done now and how many times they would allow his misbehaviour before he was expelled for it.

"Sure, Sherlock?" John prompted, sending the boy on the front row a look when he looked up with heavy eyes looking as though he was about to fall asleep then and there. He heaved himself up with a loud and purposeful sigh, weaving around the lab bench and following the overweight man outside.

In order to not let his composure slip, John immediately launched back into teaching, going through the mark scheme for questions on the repercussions of kidney dialysis. Sherlock entered the room again 5 minutes later with a forceful shove to the door behind him with his foot to close it. He trudged back to his chair without looking at anyone, buried in his own head.

* * *

"What was that about?" John asked as soon as the last student filtered out, leaving Sherlock who was packing his equipment away purposefully slowly.

"There has been a complaint filed against me" he drawled, the most bored and unaffected sound John had heard come from him.

"What? From who?" He stood from his seat immediately, walking over to where Sherlock's desk was.

"A teacher, apparently."

"For doing what? Your behaviour has been so much better lately"

Sherlock's adam's apple bobbed defiantly, "Smoking."

With an exasperated look to the ceiling, John leaned his head back. "Well, I hate to say I told you so but..."

"But you told me so." Sherlock finished his sentence for him, and John picked up on a mutter of 'predictable' under his breath.

Piling everything into his hands and straight down into his bag messily, Sherlock pushed his bag on to the floor and leant forward on his elbows, focusing on John.

"What did Sir say?" John inquired, stepping sideways and away in case any passersby seemed suspicious.

"If I'm caught smoking again on school grounds I'm suspended for a week."

John paused, cup of tea half way to his mouth, and slowly lowered his mug. "Please try not to get yourself suspended, it really doesn't look good on your record, Sherlock."

"I don't care about that, I just want to do what I want without idiotic people getting in the way of everything actually _fun_ in life" He gesticulated wildly, hoping John would understand.

"I know you don't care, but you should." John scolded, heading for the whiteboard spray to clean to board of pen.

"Why do you care anyway?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Because I don't want you to be expelled, that's why" John huffed, stretching on his tip-toes to reach the title at the top.

Sherlock sits quietly until John faces him again.

"Don't you ever get tired of constantly pushing people away?" His teacher sighed, trying and failing to figure Sherlock out.

"It's a necessity to access life's basic tools of control to circumvent unnecessary hindrances of human emotion." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

"Right. I probably should have expected an answer like that." His phone buzzed in his pocket as he frowned in response to Sherlock. His lock-screen lit up with a message.

 _From: Harry  
Coming out for drinks tonight?_

John sighed and pocketed the device, bringing his attention back to Sherlock who was staring intently at the phone in his pocket. "Family member, estranged although trying to gain contact, from the observation of ignorance from your side you are not as interested as the featured party. So, rivalry there, statistically less likely to be parents due to your age-"

"Hey!" John cried indignantly.

"Sibling rivalry?" Sherlock supplied at last.

"Not that dramatic, but yes, it was my sister. Impressive." He sent Sherlock a stern but helplessly amazed look by the young man's deduction skills, which earned another stroke to Sherlock's ever-growing ego as he sat there smirking in return.

With a shake of his head, John lifted his satchel over his shoulder and flicked off the lights at the front of the classroom. "Anyway, I best be off."

Sherlock stood to follow him, retrieved his own bag and jumped over the benches, ignoring the look it earned from John. "Dentist appointment?"

John paused and turned to look at him. "How did you kn- never mind."

Sherlock held the door open for his teacher, stepping into the empty hallway, most students and teachers had, as usual, gone home by this time, so Sherlock and John were alone in the silence.

Sherlock paused at the stairwell closest to the chemistry labs, knowing that John would cut through the staff room to leave the building.

"Are you staying behind?" John asked after realising he had stopped.

He nodded in answer.

"See you tomorrow then?" John sounded hopeful, and Sherlock rocked on his heels in response, digging his hands into his coat pockets.

"Yes," he said finally, and with a twirl of fabric, he descended down the stairs to the labs, leaving John to go his separate ways.

* * *

Sherlock was seething.

He dug his fingers into the wooden frame of the bench in front of him, curling his nails into the soft MDF board and leaving crescent moon shapes underneath. He barely registered the half amused, half concerned glances that John was directing towards him every so often he was so overcome with rage.

"Oh, Sir, I know the answer to this one!" the shrill voice accompanied with a waving hand in the air echoed from the other end of the bench to him.

Sherlock snapped his head around, sending the deadliest glare he could muster towards the new boy who was content on spending every waking second trying to outsmart him and prove he was the most intelligent.

Anderson had been praised by John three times already that lesson, and Sherlock had hated every minute of it.

John looked around hopefully, observing the blank faces of the rest of the students who were just letting Philip do all of the work. He sighed.

"Yes, Philip?"

"The role of plasma cells and memory cells produce a secondary response-"

"Wrong." Sherlock droned from the other side of the classroom, and John sent him a desperate look begging him not to start an argument with the new kid like he so desperately wanted to.

"Excuse me?" Anderson snorted, turning his entire body around in his chair to face the accusing voice coming from his left.

"I said wrong. Phagocytises, lysosomes and lysosomal enzymes in the subsequent destruction of ingested pathogens allow a defensive function in mammalian blood." Sherlock returned in a monotonous voice.

"Well, I think you'll find that if you refer to the syllabus-" Anderson started, and Sherlock laughed loudly to interrupt him. "What is so funny?!"

" _Syllabus_ ," he scoffed. "If you refer to that as your most prominent point of reference then you're definitely even more unintelligent than I thought you were in the first place."

"Sherlock-" John started, deciding to break up the argument before it gets out of hand, and knowing Sherlock, it will. "Stop the drama, please, you are both right."

Anderson sent a triumphantly smug look over to Sherlock and sat up straighter and more primly on his stool, folding his hands over one another.

Sherlock sent John the most desperate look he could muster, mentally _begging_ for him to remove Anderson from the class so he wouldn't have to put up with the stupidity of the boy.

Instead, John pointedly turned his back on Sherlock and returned to the whiteboard to continue teaching, and Sherlock glared intensely at the clock in the hopes it would make the minutes pass faster.

The bell eventually rang for lunchtime, and Sherlock stared Anderson out as he trotted to the front desk and handed John his paper with a flourish. Sherlock began to plan ways to get the paper from John later on, knowing how easily distracted the doctor could become.

"What the hell was that all about?" John asked the second the last student left the room.

"I _hate_ him." Sherlock replied, leaping up from his seat at once and gesticulating wildly in front of John's desk where he sat dumfounded.

"Sherlock, he literally just joined the school two hours ago. What has made you so detestable of him?"

"He thinks he is more intelligent than me, John, did you see the way he looked at me today, and the way he looked at _you?_ He practically hung off your every word for God sake." He stood and paced the stretch of windows to the right side wall of the room, still ranting to himself.

"He is supposed to hang off my every word if I am teaching, that is how you learn, Sherlock"

Sherlock waved his hand in John's general direction. "Stupid."

"Who is? I hope you aren't talking about me" Sherlock heard John use his 'teacher voice' and rolled his eyes.

"No. Anderson. Keep up, John!"

John sighed, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head, "God knows i'm trying..."

Sherlock scowled at him and pushed open the closest window, observing the people milling around on the concrete outside, as the remains of last night's bout of snow had settled in the corners and some surfaces. Sherlock supposed that they were about to do something completely mundane like start a _snowball fight_.

John approached from behind, settling his elbows on the window ledge next to Sherlock, their arms brushing the slightest fraction. "I have to lock up, are you coming?"

Sherlock huffed, his breath causing a circle of condensation to form on the cold window, before rapidly shrinking away, diminished by the heat of the room. He nodded.

Reaching for the lanyard around his neck that held his keys, John pulled away, trying not to pay attention to the brushing of fabric as his arm grazed Sherlock's, and his student turned to look at him far more intently than he should. John tries to find a reason to care about what he should and shouldn't be doing anymore, and finds it difficult to locate one.

* * *

Sherlock felt the burn in his lungs and sucked the smoke in deeper, feeling lightheaded and swaying backwards against the wall. He held his breath until he felt dizzy and exhaled in a thin cloud of smoke, followed by a breathy sigh of exhaustion. He closed his eyes and wished he were with John.

* * *

John rubbed at his eyes with his fists, tempted to slap himself to stay awake, and settled his mug of cold coffee down next to the intimidating stack of ungraded essays and empty lesson plans. He fell backwards onto the sofa, turning his head towards the window being pelted with rain and wind, and before he knew it he was lost in his thoughts of piercing verdigris coloured eyes that haunted his daydreams.

* * *

"You missed your appointment with the doctor, where were you?"

"Doing more important things" Sherlock mumbled from underneath the mass of blankets and pillows he had buried his body in. He heard a sigh from his brother and a shutting of the door.

Sherlock closed his eyes again until he heard a scuffing of dress-shoes on wooden floorboards and realised that Mycroft had not left, he had closed the door behind him. He groaned. "Go away Mycroft"

With the sound of an opening of a drawer, Sherlock threw the duvet over his head in frustration, eyes landing on his brother pulling out the chess board from where it was stuffed underneath the dresser. Sherlock watched him for a moment, calculating, and then brought the blankets with him as he dragged himself over to the table where Mycroft was setting up the pieces.

He glared at the white pieces before him as if they had personally offended him, spinning the board around in a fluid movement so the black pieces were on his side.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow "I was trying to be courteous," he reached for a pawn.

"Just because whites make the first move does not guarantee eventual success" Sherlock moved his knight forward in defiance.

"And you were so adamant on playing black why? Let me guess-"

"There is no reason. I don't need courtesy from _you_ " Sherlock spat.

"The colour black is a metaphor for your wounded tortured soul and the evolution of decay you face yourself dwelling in. How poetic." Mycroft smirked and moved his bishop.

Sherlock only glared and avoided Mycroft's threat, moving his knight forward again.

"When are you going to tell me the thing you have so desperately trying to hide these past weeks?" Mycroft waves his hand nonchalantly.

Sherlock smirked in return and made his move.

Mycroft took out Sherlock's knight and placed it on the side.

Sherlock attacked Mycroft's bishop and flung it back into the box. "Your turn"

He moved a rook. "I will find out what you are hiding from me, Sherlock. You know my methods."

Sherlock shook his head in amusement, eyes trained on Mycroft's king as he moved.

"Oh let me guess, you'll have me stalked by brainless and insolent secret service agents for the next few weeks until you have enough information to amuse you."

Mycroft took his pawn.

"Something along those lines" Mycroft squinted at him in vague amusement.

Sherlock beamed back at him. "Check"

Mycroft moved his queen, "Checkmate"

Sherlock frowned at the board in confusion and then flipped the board shut in frustration, pieces flying everywhere.

"You're getting better." Mycroft commented from where he was sat.

"Shut up." Sherlock grouched, reaching for his violin to play something horrendous until Mycroft leaves.

* * *

Sherlock headed to Lestrade's classroom for his weekly tutor meeting, barging straight in without knocking as usual, Greg was usually inside stuffing his face with doughnuts or playing apps on his phone and cursing at the screen.

This time, however, he was hunched over his desk, listening intently to John, who sat opposite.

"I-Sherlock?" John asked, and then visibly panics, turning straight back to Lestrade as if the public services teacher could read his thoughts.

Sherlock blinked with amusement and acknowledges him with a nod. "Dr Watson."

"You need to stop barging into my classroom, Sherlock." Greg scolded, standing up behind his desk as John mimicked his actions.

Sherlock ignored him and moved over to his usual seat which he slumped into and watched as John and Lestrade talked quietly, about the rapidly deteriorating condition of a fellow alcohol-addicted teacher, Sherlock deduced.

Greg lead him to the door eventually, with a pat on the back and the promise to 'catch up at lunch', John left with a final glance to Sherlock and closed the door behind him.

"Right," Lestrade clapped once, the sound echoing around the room making Sherlock wince.

"Could you stop being so irritating for five minutes?" Sherlock complained, folding his arms.

"Hello to you too" Greg commented as he sorted through his tutor folders. "How's your personal statement coming along?"

"I haven't started it" Sherlock admitted, knowing it would infuriate his tutor to no end after he had asked Sherlock at least 20 times to at least begin writing it.

Lestrade sighed, "Why am I not surprised?"

"You have unrealistic expectations" his student replied matter-of-factly.

"Of what?" Lestrade asked with a confused look on his face.

"Everything. But mostly me."

"You can't blame me for trying" he replied, sitting down opposite Sherlock at last. "Reports have been good from your teachers lately. Just a couple of disputes with your Chemistry teacher I see?"

"I am too advanced for her." Sherlock raised his chin.

"Nevertheless, you need to be more respectful."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in true two-year-old fashion and swung back on his chair.

"Do you have lessons this afternoon?"

"Free periods," Sherlock drawled "I'll most likely be in Chemistry"

Greg nodded and looked back at Sherlock's last progress statement, written in the previous term. He yanked the paper free and pushed it towards Sherlock once more. "You need to write a new statement, about your targets for each subject."

Sherlock stared back at Lestrade as if he had just asked him to time-travel back in time and change history. Lestrade simply raised his eyebrows, pushing a pen towards his student until the boy frowned down at the paper and began to scribble one-worded statements.

Five minutes later, once Sherlock had explained to him the nature of the smoking complaint made by the member of staff through the head teacher, Lestrade packed up his folders and shoved them into a drawer close to his desk. "Okay, we're about done here. You can go for lunch. See you on Thursday."

Sherlock nodded once and rose, heading straight for the chemistry labs to purposefully avoid the student infested cafeteria.

* * *

John was half-way through explaining to a year seven student the importance of manners when a sharp ringing trilled through the air. He startled when recognising the sound as the fire alarm, not recalling a notice about a fire drill in the all staff email that morning.

His thoughts were interrupted by the heavy scent of smoke drifting into the classroom. _Shit._

"Alright! Don't panic! Fire procedures! Line up and follow me!" He mentally checked off all the things he was supposed to do in the event of the fire, did a manically fast head-count and ushered the hysterical students into the corridor into slightly warmer air, rushing them all towards the fire exit stairs.

They curled down the stairs and then scattered once they hit the grass outside, "Tutor formation!" John called after the disappearing heads, moving as far away from the building as they could, reaching the swarms of other students gathered by the green wire fence in loose tutor lines.

John spotted Greg Lestrade almost immediately, rushing to where he was ushering his tutor group together. "Greg! Do you know what's going on?"

"Not a clue, half of my tutor is missing-" Greg counted the heads of the sixth-formers in front of him, John stood to the side helplessly, thankful he doesn't have a tutor group of his own.

Another teacher jogged past wearing the reflective vest fire marshals were to wear and Greg snagged him to ask for any information he knew, "They're saying it's on the second floor, by the chemistry department" the man shrugged, rushing off towards the other vested teachers.

A group of four students made their way over to Greg after a few seconds and Lestrade scanned back over his register again, noticing only one more absence.

"John-"

John saw the look of panic on his face and something in his stomach dropped. "What is it?"

"Have you seen Sherlock?" Greg asked, glancing back to the building, darkened smoke beginning to billow out from the windows of the second floor with the occasional crackle, causing frenzy amongst the students.

John spun around desperately trying to locate the head of curly hair, but knowing he wasn't the tallest person there made it impossible, and his heart was panicking in his chest, beating wildly and palms sweating. "I haven't seen him since lunch-time, he told me he'd be in Chemistry all afternoon" John croaked.

 _Breathe. He has to be here somewhere._

"Me too... _Shit_." Greg cursed, waving over one of the marshals frantically. "Have any of you seen Sherlock?" he asked the other students in his tutor, though they stood there with blank looks on their face as if they had never even dared to speak to Sherlock let alone know where he was.

John hyperventilates, imagining Sherlock trapped in that building, choking from smoke inhalation and crowded by flames. _Fuck._ "Greg- I'm... I'm going in" he called, already running towards the building, stripping his coat off and throwing it behind him onto the tarmac.

"No! John, you can't go in there!" Greg panicked, shouting over student's voices, eyes frantically looking back towards the crowds of children still piling out from the building. "John! Just wait for the fire engines!"

John turned back to Greg with a determined look in his eyes just before a roar of heat blasts glass from one of the large windows on the second floor, crackling with a hiss and a wave of heat. John ignored the screams and continued to run.

He heard Greg shouting other teachers to restrain John, to stop him, but continued running, forcing himself straight through the double doors, the heat hitting him immediately as he clambered up the stairs, hearing his name being called by the mass of voices, teachers rushing in after him and being held back for their own safety.

John barely escaped, clambering up taking the steps two at a time as the air began to get thicker and the sweat around his collar started to drip onto the fabric. John was either hallucinating from the fear or his tie was definitely trying to strangle him.

There were a few last people rushing from the building past him down the stairs, being evacuated by adults that John ignored when they screamed at him asking what the hell he was doing.

He forced the doors open, hearing another smash-explosion of glass nearby but resolutely ignoring the horror he knows he was running straight in to. "Sherlock!" he screamed, weaving madly through the empty hallways, coughing and spluttering from the smoke making its way into his lungs.

* * *

It's about a minute later after screaming his student's name that he hears a weak croak from below him. "John?"

And there he was. Covered in black soot and hunched over on the floor. Clawing his way along the carpet. Trying desperately to open his eyes from the intensity of the smoke to see if it really was his teacher or if his idiotically hopeful mind was hallucinating his figure.

"Shit, Sherlock-" John grabbed him immediately, hauling his arm around Sherlock's back and dragging him towards the stairs. "Come on,"

They were met at the mid-point of the stairs by three firemen dressed in huge gear, masks strapped on tightly and rushing straight towards them. They were separated as one large fire-fighter practically lifted John over his shoulder and two others lifted Sherlock between them, the teen's eyes were squeezed shut and covered in blackness of dirt and dust.

More quickly than John could remember, they were met by the light of the sky, the freshness of the wind forcing itself into their lungs, causing Sherlock to begin a violent coughing fit, both of them being moved straight over to the ambulance on site.

John vaguely noticed that most of the students that had been lined up had been evacuated to the field further away, cordoned off by tape and firemen surrounding the engines with three supporting ambulances. "Sherlock? I- Are you- Is he okay?" John questioned earnestly, craning his neck around to see Sherlock's legs dangling from the back of the other ambulance, still coughing everywhere.

The member of ambulance staff braced John on the shoulders, settling him with a firm squeeze, ushering him to sit down, pulling out meters and masks immediately. "Don't worry, he has paramedics with him too. What is your name?"

"John", he croaked, launching into another coughing fit at the persistent itching and dryness in his throat.

They were attaching a breath monitor to John's face just as he heard a retching from beside him, and leaned over to see Sherlock throwing up violently over the concrete floor. He went to pull the mask down from his face, ready to stand and help him "Sherlock-"

"No, keep seated please, we can't afford you getting disorientated and passing out." his paramedic pushed him down again, and John eyed the lines of equipment in clear trays and boxes along the wall of the ambulance, distracting himself with the sight of syringes and valves stuffed into transparent packaging.

Sherlock had quietened now, they had laid him down on the stretcher and he was being instructed to breathe deeply into the gas and air machine, tracking his pulse simultaneously. John imagined the voice in Sherlock's head about how irritating these green-coated people were being, and barely held back a chuckle.

"John!" he heard a nearby voice, and turned to register Greg running towards the vehicle. "Are you okay? You fucking idiot- why did you do that for?" he went to punch John in the shoulder and hesitated halfway from the fragile looking state of his face. Dark circles surrounded his bloodshot eyes, the hint of soot dusting his wrinkled clothes and his face, Greg stared at him with pity whilst John wrestled with his uncomfortably tight top shirt button.

"And you-" Greg turned to the ambulance opposite, spotting Sherlock with his legs dangling, just out of John's viewpoint. "Why weren't you out as soon as the fire alarm sounded?" he cried, gesticulating in frustration.

That's when John finally hears his voice, deep and barren of emotion, just on the side of croaky which no doubt irritated the unbreakable Sherlock Holmes. "Fire alarms are idiotic, I thought it was another one of those ridiculous drills. Plus, I was busy thinking."

Greg's eyes lit up with unquestionable anger, just about to lapse into a well-deserved lecture when a tall man appeared quite literally from nowhere.

He was dressed in a full piece suit, jet black and pin-striped with a crimson red tie Windsor-knotted at the stiff wing-tip collar. With an air of familiarity and confidence, the man marched straight over to Sherlock, grasping tightly a hawk-ended umbrella and reaching straight for Sherlock's face. John felt immediately intimidated by his presence.

Sherlock scowled as Mycroft took his face in one hand, gripping him by his chin and tilting his head to check for signs of trauma with a direct look into his eyes. After a moment he let go, his fingers hovering.

"I'm fine" Sherlock insisted with irritation. "Would you tell them to stop putting this blanket on me?!" he ripped the orange object from his shoulders once more and tossed it to the floor with defiance.

"Sort out your shirt" the man ordered in an uninterested tone, wiping at the material loosely hanging from Sherlock's shoulders, and John restrained the urge to pounce forward, wondering who the hell this man was. When studying his features closely, the gingery-brunette hair and sharp blue eyes held certain similarities to Sherlock, but this man looked entirely too young to be his father, or his uncle, and besides, Sherlock had told John that his parents were deceased.

Greg interrupted before John could ask, however, stepping forward into the shadow of the ambulance. "Excuse me, I don't believe we've been introduced, I'm-"

"Gregory Lestrade, I presume?" He turned to face the teacher, a slight squint to his snake-like eyes and offered a long outstretched hand.

John watched with confusion as Greg visibly swallowed, looking entirely flustered as he gripped the man's hand. "Yes, yes- And you are?"

"Mycroft Holmes" they shook hands. "Are you the teacher that retrieved my brother from the fire? I believe I ought to express my utmost gratitude-"

"Oh, no, I- That wasn't me, I'm Sherlock's tutor. Dr John Watson here saved him from the fire" Greg gestured directly over to John who finally jumped down from the van, paramedics be damned.

He self-consciously straightened his spine and pushed his shoulders back, walking briskly forward to the much taller man whose intense gaze was now fixed directly on him. John finally caught sight of Sherlock as he rounded the ambulance, exchanging a glance with him and ignoring his rapidly increasing heart-rate.

"Doctor John Watson," Mycroft tested the name on his tongue for a moment, rapidly flicking his eyes over John's approaching frame, deducing the man's emotions from the expressions on his face.

"Pleased to meet you" John reached out a hand towards him, firmly shaking Mycroft's cold hand and then returning to his normal stance.

"I believe I owe you my thanks, for assisting Sherlock from the fire."

John blinked, keeping his eyes straight ahead and away from his student. "I'm just glad nobody was seriously hurt." he attempted to sound as sincere and professional as he could, feeling even more daunted by the older Holmes' looming stance and blank facial expression.

Mycroft rapidly attached the data in his head; from the lingering glances and uneasiness, Sherlock's increase of breath behind him when he shook Dr Watson's hand, from the fathomable electrical charge in the air between the two silent men, it was safe to determine that _this_ is what Sherlock had been hiding. And with one look back to Sherlock, he knew that he was right.

Sherlock sprung up. "Can we all stop lurking around like lacklustre animals and get out of here." he snapped, reaching for his discarded coat that lay abandoned on the ambulance step, still reeking of smoke. With the final affirmation from paramedics that they were acceptably medically relieved, Sherlock stormed off ahead, wrapped in his coat, collar up and dress-shoes crunching the broken glass particles under his feet.

Whilst Mycroft had excused himself as politely as possible to approach the head-teacher, Greg and John were left in silent apprehension, "Well, that was interesting," John said at last. "I felt like he was trying to read my thoughts or something."

"Seeing that he's Sherlock's brother, he probably was" Greg frowned, not taking his eyes from the tall man with the black umbrella despite the clear skies. "Oh here's your coat, by the way."

"Ta" John took it from him, slipping it on immediately and pulling the collar closed around his face to force out the biting cold.

Greg made his excuses about speaking to the head and left, whilst John focused on the direction Sherlock was heading, crossing the small field and rounding the corner to the bricked bike sheds away from view.

Rubbing his hands together to keep the rapidly dissipating warmth in, he aimed to look casual as he walked in the same general direction Sherlock had, if only to check up on his wellbeing.

* * *

"Are you seriously smoking right now, Sherlock? Seriously?" John scolded as soon as he rounded the corner, raising his voice at the man with the lighter in his hand.

"I...Yes. Sorry-" Sherlock grimaced down at himself and retracted his thumb from the lighter pedal, stuffing the un-used cigarette back into the sodden cardboard carton crinkled in his inside coat pocket.

John slid his hands into his pockets, his exhale turning into a mist of fog from the freezing winter air. He raised his eyebrows, "Sherlock Holmes saying sorry, that's a first." He scuffed his shoe at the floor, refusing eye contact which convinced Sherlock of his previous suspicion, he was angry with him.

"Well. You did save my life, I suppose that grants some sort of an apology" Sherlock was attempting to be sincere, but still somehow managed to make John huff out a laugh, running his calloused hands over his worn-looking face.

"Jesus, Sherlock" he shook his head. "What were you thinking? There are fire alarms for a reason, you know, what if I hadn't gone in after you? What if someone had managed to stop me?"

"You know my methods, John." he grinned unexpectedly. "I am known to be indestructible."

John bit out a bitter laugh, completely done with anything Sherlock had to say. He pushed off from the wall and stormed off in the direction of the school.

"Wait! John-" Sherlock grabbed his arm, hauling him back into the secluded bricked corner, not letting go even after John was stood staring straight back at him. "I-"

John looked down at Sherlock's leather gloved hands, fiddling with the thick material of John's coat sleeve, which had been returned to him by Greg so he didn't freeze to death.

"I am thankful", his icy sharp eyes flicked upwards, meeting John's gaze for a moment, a fleeting chance of softness and invitation before the connection was lost and Sherlock dropped his sight to the ground once more.

Though the air was cold the warm breath between them mingled and warmed John's face, aware of his mouth parting slightly at a loss of what to say. He found his eyes inexplicably drawn to Sherlock's perfectly sculpted cupid-bow lips.

"Just try to be more careful, okay?" John sighed, pulling away from the close proximity they had just shared, suddenly nervous that it had been witnessed.

The silence between them stretched on persistently, the crunch of gravel under their feet scraping minutely as their feet shuffled about.

"Are you angry with me?" the young Holmes stared directly at the ground.

"I was, but in my experience- anger never seems to last long with you" John sighed, straightening his stance and flexing his hands at his sides. Sherlock looked up at him.

"Should I take that as a compliment?"

"Take it however you like, I'm so exhausted right now I have no idea what I'm even saying, let alone what I mean by the things I say."

Clearing his throat, Sherlock uncurled from his slouch against the wall. "I believe students and teachers have been excused from school until further notice. You should go home."

While John's brain was screaming at him for sleep, his body swayed unintentionally more towards Sherlock's moving figure. "You're going home too I hope? You can't stay here-"

"I'm sure Mycroft will insist on my return tonight" Sherlock rolled his eyes, his curls falling lopsided by the determined breeze.

The two began to walk back to the general gathering of vehicles and scattered people, taped off by police. Sherlock ducked underneath and lifted the dividing tape up for John to walk under.

Before they realise how long they had stood in comfortable silence, a quick glance to the left provided the view of an expressionless Mycroft, stood aside with his arm settled on the open door of a sleek black Mercedes with an unspoken demand that Sherlock say his goodbyes and follow him home.

Sherlock glared at him for a moment, and then reluctantly turned back to John, knowing that Mycroft was watching their every move. John's wide eyes flickered up to his with some hesitation, neither addressing the odd atmosphere that had changed and now hung about the air between them.

"See you then" John nodded, pursing his lips and measuring the reasonable amount of distance between their bodies.

The irritating flashes of LED blue and red lights from the sirens of police and ambulances flashed over Sherlock's pale and stoic features, the sky beginning to darken with the prelude of nightfall. He departed with a silence about him that sends a shiver down John's spine.

Surrounded by the dissipating warmth of the air, Doctor John Watson forced himself not to watch as the young man he had become so enraptured by climbed into a car sheathed in shadows.


	3. Chapter 3

_What I've done, you've done too,_

 _The walls I hide behind, you walk through_

* * *

The official report from the fire-investigator team stated that the fire at the school had been caused by an open flame, a bunsen burner left unattended and still alight in an empty classroom with an open window and stacks of papers and worksheets nearby that had not been cleared away.

As expected, there were questions asked about why Sherlock Holmes was so nearby the source of the fire, a couple of classrooms down the hall with dangerous chemicals, equipment, and an empty room all to himself. Although the attempt of scape-goating Sherlock was short-lived, as the interference of Mycroft provided unquestionable, substantial evidence that the fire was not started anywhere near Sherlock's classroom or caused by any chemical compounds reacting together that he may have caused. So that was that.

In other words, Sherlock was in the clear, although very heavily lectured by Lestrade, and various other members of staff in weekly assemblies of the importance of the adequate execution of fire drills. Naturally, Sherlock proceeded to dismiss everything he was told by the figure that he had worked out of the un-likeliness of this event to happen again. ( _'There is less than a 5.8% chance that an event similar to this will occur again, Lestrade, so it is not necessary to grant the irrelevant procedure of fire drills a place in my mind palace and therefore must be immediately deleted'_ )

Needless to say, Lestrade was having trouble restraining himself from shaking some violent and well-justified sense into his student.

And then there was John. Just over a week had passed since the fire, and the science side of the school had been shut off and lessons cancelled until the building was deemed safe again after sufficient repairs, this meant that he had not seen Sherlock since the fire.

He had heard about him, through Lestrade, about how he was driving the tutor round the bend with his stubborn and impatient nature that only seemed to be amplified by the recent restriction he was being put under from having no access to the labs in-school.

The truth was that Sherlock had spent an entire week trying to force John Watson from his brain, though he kept reappearing with flashes of lop-sided grins, confused frowns and tired limps.

* * *

"Sherlock, what is wrong? You are moping around like a puppy who's had his tail stepped on" Mrs Hudson tutted, pushing the sweeping brush in a circle around him as he sat refusing to move to accommodate her cleaning.

Sherlock said nothing and merely raised an eyebrow, staring up at the library ceiling and counting the stains and smudges on the tiles.

"Oh, I see, you're lost without your chemicals aren't you, dear? Well, some time away from explosions might do you good, what with all of this fire business lately." she hummed to herself, moving further away as she swept around the circular tables.

"These restrictions of the science labs are ridiculous" Sherlock growled to himself, jumping down from his seat and dragging his forefinger along the spines of the closest row of books.

"Rules are there for a reason, to keep you safe" Mrs Hudson chided, waving a finger in his direction to emphasise her point.

Before Sherlock got a chance to respond, he received a sharp _shhh_ from the librarian on duty, accompanied by an impatient glare. Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow at him and pointedly returned a book to the shelf that Sherlock had thrown to the floor in his mood.

Sherlock felt for the lighter in his pocket and resolutely ignored the twist of guilt in his stomach that came with the action. He brushed his thumb over the sturdy metal wheel of the clasp, squeezing his eyes shut in annoyance for a moment before giving in, and swung his coat over his head and onto his shoulders.

* * *

Barely 30 seconds had passed since he'd lit up when he heard the footsteps behind him. "John?"

He turned to meet the suspicions of his mind and was faced with the sheepish looking teacher, hands stuffed in his pockets, tie askew and loosened at the knot with a night's worth of stubble making a light appearance on his jaw and chin, curving around the softness of his open lips.

"Long time no see," John laughed with uncertainty, taking measured steps forward, wishing so intensely that they were alone so he could shake Sherlock and scream how consuming his feelings were becoming, and how dare he exist to be such a temptation, and why did his lips always look so alluring and kissable?

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly, something in the back of his mind registering that such a characteristic had recently been inherited from Mycroft, which irritated Sherlock to no end. He deduced what he could from the way John was standing, apprehensively with his fingers grasping the material on the inside of his pockets, the state of his un-buttoned cuffs rolled to the elbow and his dress shoes covered in a slight sheen from walking across the wet grass to the block where he knew Sherlock usually went to smoke.

 _Lost: 3.5 lbs, stress-related. Recently had an argument with his mother. Won a poker game against Lestrade at lunch-_

"Indeed," Sherlock hollowed his cheeks on the inhale, swaying his weight to the other foot and sliding his hand into his suit trouser pocket, canting his hips slightly forward and saying nothing in return.

"How have you been?" The doctor asked, Sherlock repressed his smirk at typical caring John and let his arm push against the brick wall, his long fingers tracing the indents of dried cement, picking at the sharp corners of brick.

"Bored, as usual. " He grimaced, wincing as he sliced his thumb on a sharp crack of cement and dark red liquid dropped onto the stark grey pavement at his feet. John tutted slightly but rushed forward to help and examine the cut.

He took Sherlock's hand into his own without any hesitation.

Sherlock was struck between wanting to watch Dr Watson's calloused fingers brushing rhythmically against his, and watching John's face contort with the effort of concentration, the dent between his eyes defining, the laugh lines around his eyes squinting together, his blue eyes flickering back and forth over Sherlock's pale skin. Sherlock found himself feeling quite breathless when John's lips parted unconsciously.

"Idiot," John muttered softly, voice full of affection, snapping Sherlock out of his daydream to realise Dr Watson was still examining the cut on his thumb. "I can't leave you for one second without you injuring yourself "

"How?"

"Damaging your lungs by smoking, burning yourself with chemicals, getting trapped in fires, cutting yourself on bricks" John smirked, "You're a whole new definition of danger."

Sherlock's brow furrowed for a second, realising that he had dropped his cigarette to the ground a while ago, and his free hand he had been holding it with had the slightest tremor, to which perplexed him to no end. "John-"

"Don't-" He starts, sliding his hand out of Sherlock's. "Just...Don't. I don't know what this is between us but-"

Sherlock sighed. "I don't do sentiment, John. I don't do this."

John's jaw clenched for a moment. "Then don't-"

"I can't" he growled in return, turning with a swish of thick fabric as he slid his lighter back into his pocket and rubbed his hands together.

John paused, watching his student cover his face with his hand, sliding his palm upwards into his hair and gripping. "You can't wh-"

"I can't stop thinking" Sherlock shouted, and John frowns at him in warning to lower his voice, and watched as Sherlock slid his back down the wall to slump on the floor, arms resting limply atop his knees.

John watched him for a while, until he too dropped to the floor next to him, slightly slower and less agile because of his leg, but hitching himself upwards , hands sifting the gravel from the ground in fistfuls.

"About you" Sherlock added with the toss of a sharp stone skittering against the gravel, the words ripping open the silence and knocking John's breath from his chest in the process.

"Fuck," John groaned, "Sherlock, we can't. We _really_ can't." he swore, running his hands over his face with a muffled voice.

Sherlock nodded back to him in agreement. Until, softly; "I know."

"I mean- I would lose my job, and...you would be in so much trouble, probably expelled, because of your reputation. And the things people would think about me, probably about you too, I just- I don't want to ruin any chance you've got at a successful and happy life."

Sherlock scowled at the last part, keeping his mouth shut and contemplating whether his thoughts had ever encompassed the potential of a successful and happy life to begin with, before he'd even met John. He knew that they hadn't.

"Plus I would probably be skinned alive by your brother, and he would have me ejected from the country for high treason or something equally ridiculous and terrifying-"

"Psh, please. Mycroft is an idiot, he'd never get away with it. I wouldn't let him."

John smiled sadly for a moment, pulling against the magnetic field that was pushing his outstretched hand towards Sherlock's.

Sherlock hauled himself up from the ground, brushing off his suit trousers and flicking out his coat, the collar flinging up. He stooped to help John up with his un-injured hand, making sure not to linger too long on the up-take.

"Is it weird that I miss our Wednesdays?" John said tentatively after a moment, more light-heartedly.

" _Our_ Wednesdays?" Sherlock smirked, sinking his hands in his pockets and leading the way from the bricked house-shed.

"You know what I mean" John mumbled, cheeks turning pink.

"We can still have our Wednesdays" Sherlock insisted.

John looked over to him. "My classroom is one of the ones that has been restricted from the fire." He frowned, his eyes flickering to the right quickly as if he had no choice but to remember that day.

"We are not restricted to the four walls of this dreadful school, John."

"We are if we want to remain appropriate, _Sherlock._ " John reprimanded him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine,"

John was silent as they approached the double doors of the school, "One day", he smiled with something like a promise, and slapped his hand on Sherlock's back to create the illusion of simple friendly discussion to any onlookers.

Sherlock forced his lips to lift to a hollow smile, holding the door open for his teacher and disregarding the sickliness settling in his stomach.

* * *

John didn't like the way Greg was looking at him.

After parting with Sherlock he had retired to the staff room, found Greg Lestrade sitting in one of the small chairs by the open windows, a box full of folders at his feet. John had nodded towards him and made a bee-line to the coffee machine before returning to the chair opposite Greg.

It wasn't until John had been sat reading the newspaper he had grabbed from the side for a couple of minutes that he had noticed something was different.

"What?" he asked finally, folding the newspaper and dropping it onto his lap.

Greg didn't look startled at being addressed, as if he had wanted John to ask him, which made the doctor feel slightly uneasy. "Have you seen Sherlock today?"

John paused. "Yes, briefly. Why?"

Greg remained in silence for a couple of beats before turning his head towards the window, looking out across the back fields of the school, John's gaze followed. And landed on the line of bricked storage shed-houses in the distance, currently being pelted by rain. "Nothing, I just...I saw you two talking"

 _Shit_. John wished he were a better actor as he felt his face drop. "Oh?"

"You two are rather close, aren't you?" Greg asked, sounding genuinely curious.

John cleared his throat and uncrossed his legs in his chair. "I suppose. Not really, why?"

Lestrade laughed suddenly, a legitimate smile spreading across his face.

"Don't look so serious, John. I'm only asking. It just seems to be that you're one of the only people who can get through to him most of the time." he settled back in his seat, scratching at the tightness of the watch around his wrist. "God knows I can't."

John felt the weight lift from his shoulders but the tension remained, his foot tapping nervously. "I don't think anyone ever truly gets through to Sherlock, or ever will" John joked, and the moment is gone. That doesn't stop John becoming increasingly paranoid as soon as any other teacher walks through the door, his irrational brain insisting to him that everyone knew.

 _Everyone knows, and there isn't even anything to know_.

Doctor Watson checked his own pulse for signs of an approaching anxiety attack and excused himself to the bathroom.

* * *

It wasn't the first time Sherlock had followed John, but it was definitely the longest time he had attempted it for.

The intense messages from his brain demanding him for more data on John made Sherlock leap at any chance he got to observe the man. John was just about to pull out of the car park when he ran his hands over his face and kept them there for a couple of minutes as his frame began to shake ever so slightly.

Something clicked in Sherlock and his stomach twisted uncomfortably, heart rate increasing for reasons he didn't know. His legs began moving of their own accord before he could change his mind, re-evaluate the situation and decide on a plan of action.

But no, Sherlock apparently had little control over his emotions lately, which made him livid with himself. But in this moment he just didn't care.

John heard the softest tap on the glass to his right, and pulled away from his bubble of self-pity to be met with the concerned face of Sherlock Holmes, his knuckles hovering against the window. He'd heard a clear "John?" before he had made probably one of the most risky and possibly stupid decisions of the day.

John looked around, knowing that his own regular parking space was quite secluded towards the back of the car-park, shadowed under the darkness of a large willow tree, creating flickering shadows in the dim light of the evening. Such a split-second decision made alarm bells ring in his head as he gestured for Sherlock to go around the car and come sit in the passenger seat next to him.

It appeared he didn't need to be told twice, as he took three long strides to wrench open the door and sit like a silent inquisitive owl inside, watching John with hooded eyes and wringing his hands together. "Are you-"

The genius' eyebrows furrowed with caution, and John watched as one of Sherlock's hands reached halfway out towards him and was immediately pulled back towards his chest. "Okay? I mean...Are you alright?" he frowned to himself, clearly unfamiliar if uncomfortable with expressing emotional concern outwardly.

John mustered a sad smile and turned back to the wheel. "Shall we go on a drive?" he cleared his throat at the nod of consent from Sherlock and pulled out from the parking space. Sherlock gets his phone out to scroll through so he can keep his head down and concealed from prying eyes.

* * *

They end up in a re-furbished 1950s cafe on the outskirts of London, they warmed themselves with travel cups of coffee until John led them back out to the car.

Sherlock itched for a cigarette but remembered how John disapproved the last time he smoked, and tightened his hands around his cup instead as they leaned against the bonnet of the car.

"John, I- I wish I were better at this. I'm...sorry"

He watched Sherlock fumble over his words and became even more awestruck by his student, perplexed at how somebody so incredibly intelligent could be so incapable of handling something as instinctive as emotions.

"You're fine" he smiled, tempted to reach out to trace the knuckles of Sherlock's gloved hand. "I'm sorry, I'm just finding all of this difficult to cope with, I know that's no excuse but-"

"What exactly are you finding difficult?" Sherlock turned to face John, needing to understand.

With the electricity of eye-contact threatening to break John's self-restraint of desire, he looked away. "This, Sherlock. Whatever _this_ is. I can't take the suspense anymore, or the paranoia that everyone knows about us-"

"Us?"

"Yes, us." John insisted.

Sherlock's hand edged closer to John's across the glossed metal hood. "I wasn't aware there was an us, John."

John breathed out, the cold air making it appear as a tunnel of smoke. "That's the problem." He looked down to their hands, their little fingers overlapping.

Sherlock stood suddenly and pulled his coat around himself, walking straight out of the car park, leaving John with no choice but to follow, panicking that he had said the wrong thing, _yet again_.

"Sherlock-"

"Shh-" He hushed, holding a hand out. John crossed his arms for a moment, leaning back against the gate of somebody's house, watching Sherlock standing alone.

Sherlock bounded off a second later, his head whipping round as if he were a dog being called by his owner. John downed back the rest of his drink and sprinted after him, racing around the corner to find Sherlock half-way up a nearby tree.

"What the hell are you doing?" John exclaimed, standing underneath Sherlock in preparation to catch him.

"One second-" Sherlock called, reaching straight over to a branch sheathed in hanging leaves to where the quietest of strangled mewling could be heard.

"Sherlock-" John called again, only to notice that the student was cradling something in his arms, dropping down from the tree immediately to lay it out against the pavement. A tiny baby bird, entangled in a muddy plastic bag.

John watched in awe as Sherlock untangled the plastic as best as he could, soothing the bird with a low hum in the base of his throat, and checking over his feathers before swinging back up to replace the chick in its home of twigs and sticks.

"How did you even-" John began as Sherlock turned back to him in silence.

"Couldn't you hear her?" he asked with confusion, clearing his throat and putting his hands in his pockets with the decency of being embarrassed by John's awestruck expression.

"No, I- How did you learn to do that? It was completely calm with you"

"Bird calls," Sherlock shrugged. "My father and I used to bird watch when I was a child." he admitted reluctantly, stalking off with his tall figure casting a shadow against the cracked pavement.

"Sherlock," John called.

He stopped without turning his head. "What?"John's eyes fell upon the dark silhouette of wide shoulders encased in the length of Sherlock's textured collared coat, the distinguished figure that John had come to know so well.

"Come here," John pleaded with a mixture of affection and fear appearing in his voice. Sherlock stood stock still, his dress shoes scuffing against the floor and his hair blowing persistently in the breeze as he returned cautiously to John.

Wishing for the 100th time that he was taller, John took a deep breath and pushed himself up onto his tiptoes to press his forehead to Sherlock's, his own gloved hand resting against the nape of his neck.

Sherlock froze, then immediately moved closer to the warmth, his mouth falling open as he crowded John back against the bricked wall of the alley way behind them. With a great deal of uncertainty, he placed his hand on the wall to the side of John's head, his eyes burning with the same question John's brain was screaming.

"We shouldn't-" John started, contradicting himself by curling his hands in the folds of Sherlock's thick coat and urging Sherlock's body closer to his own.

"Do you really care?" Sherlock asked eventually, sharp eyes scanning for any clues he could get from John's expression on whether he should make the move to push them both over the edge.

"No-" John swore, his eyes starting to water from the intensity of which they were boring into Sherlock's. "I don't."

Sherlock calculated the angle of John's stubby nose from this close up, measured the likelihood that the scar high on his left cheekbone had been caused by stray shrapnel whizzing through Afghanistan-warzone air. Feels the calluses of John's fingertips against the gooseflesh of his bare neck, wonders if John resents the tremble in his left forefinger from the damaged nerve he'd gained from being too near an exploding bomb in his first year in the field.

Sherlock wonders if John sees himself as wounded, wondered if he sees Sherlock that way too. He wonders how much Lestrade has told him about the drugs, the suspensions, the (minor, in his opinion) crimes.

Sherlock wonders if he would ever find the strength to tell John himself.

"Neither do I," He said at last, but let his hand fall from the surface of bricked wall behind John's head.

* * *

They walked back to John's car in silence, neither of them acknowledging what could have potentially just happened. _So_ _close._

* * *

" _Sherlock_ -" John started, looking over to where Sherlock was staring out of the car window on his own side.

"No, I don't think you are a sinister paedophile, John. Seriously? I am eighteen. A thirteen year age-gap is hardly the biggest difference I have heard of in situations such as these." Sherlock insisted without turning his head.

"I- how do you do that?" John's cheeks began to fill with colour, his head shaking with confusion at how his student could seemingly read his thoughts with little difficulty.

"You are an _extremely_ loud thinker" Sherlock drawled in response, the illusion of him sounding insulted by John's very existence being shattered by the tiniest of smiles lifting the corner of his lips, illuminated by the passing flashes of street-lamp light.

* * *

"There is no point in insulting Mycroft's intelligence by dropping me off around the corner from my house, John. He has known all this time where I've been and with whom." Sherlock sighed, flapping his hand at John until he pulled away from the kerb and continued to drive further down the road in pursuit of Sherlock's house.

"Shit- What? He knows? How can he know?"

Sherlock canted his hips upward in order to squash his phone down into the pocket of his trousers. "Probably some predictable magic trick of his including the security cameras of the entirety of London that he likes to show off with every so often"

John visibly tensed, his knuckles becoming increasingly white on the steering wheel. "We shouldn't have-"

"No. Probably not, but we did." Sherlock stated curtly. "Mycroft is Mycroft. He won't do anything, he knows that if he did I would run again-" Sherlock babbled before he can stop himself.

John's brow furrowed as he turned to Sherlock, releasing his foot down on the brake slowly.

Sherlock closed his eyes as they came to a stop, knowing the predictable questions that were coming, the ones everybody asked. _Why would you do that, Sherlock? What is wrong with you? Why are you so freakishly different that you'd rather be homeless than let your brother do what is best for you? You should listen to your brother, he is older and has legal guardianship. Why do you never listen, Sherlock?_

Instead, John was silent, his breathing controlled. He spoke quietly. "I'll run with you," John turned his body towards him. "If you ever have to, ever again, Sherlock. Run to _me."_

And with that, Sherlock's walls came crashing down, those polluted waters burst free from the dams he had built and rebuilt himself, and rushed outwards, rushed towards John. And he knew he would never doubt John Watson again. Would never doubt his intentions, his focus, his overwhelmingly virtuous and willing heart. He would never doubt the security he found in John's eyes. Would never doubt the strength of the soldier, the graciousness of the doctor, the irrevocable pull of John Watson.

 _Never again, John._


	4. Chapter 4

_And every day, I'm learning about you,  
The things that no one else sees._

 _And with words unspoken, a silent devotion,  
I know you know what I mean._

* * *

A week later, John's classroom is returned to him, and lessons resume as normal. Even though there had been little-to-no fire damage to John's room, all science classrooms had been decked out with the newest high-standard equipment, which meant inevitably that Sherlock spent his entirety of his free time dwelling there.

"Sherlock, really?" John sighed upon entering his classroom on a Wednesday morning. "Have some respect and tidy up after yourself please."

Sherlock paused momentarily and surveyed his surroundings, noticing that the entirety of the bench to his right side had been decorated with the remainders of the first phases of his experiment on the saliva sample of his neighbour's dog he had collected that morning.

John looked up to the clock, only having just gotten into school himself, an hour before school even began. "Are you just letting yourself in now?" He challenged, sinking back into his chair and wincing at the twinge of pain coming from his leg.

Sherlock pursed his lips, glancing up to John and doing a double-take, noticing the expression on his teacher's face.

"John?" he stood, checking on the closed door in his peripheral vision before pulling off his latex gloves.

Sherlock could feel the stress radiating off of him in waves, his face buried in his hands, the twitch of his bad leg every so often, the laboured breathing. "John" he repeated, and moved around the bench towards him.

John inhaled sharply. "I'm- no I'm fine, really- just- " He waved a hand in Sherlock's direction when he sensed him approaching.

"Harriet, I assume?" the deep voice returned, standing to the side of John's desk by now, hands hovering, unsure what to do with them. "That and the fact that your car broke down on the way to work, your leg is causing you pain again, and your nightmares of the war have returned."

John's immediate thought was the question of how Sherlock's deductions didn't offend him sometimes. Instead he found himself often wondering at the genius of the young man before him, wondering what his technical mental age and capability was, knowing it far exceeded his own and most of the people he knew. "I- yes, correct." John pulled his hands away from his face and startled to feel Sherlock's fingertips coming into contact with the material of his shirt, tracing along the seam uncertainly, clearly uncomfortable with the raw emotion in the room.

"I'm sorry, John. I never know what to do in these situations." John saw the thoughts racing behind Sherlock's eyes and a smile stretched across his face.

"You're doing better than you think you are." He blinked, staring up at Sherlock with something akin to adoration across his features.

Something close to a blush coloured Sherlock's cheeks for a moment. Confused at the reaction, he immediately tried to control it, which of course made him blush even harder. John smiled so hard at this he felt as though his face was about to split in two and okay, maybe this is a bit creepy, he should probably stop but, God, he's _so_ gorgeous.

Sherlock grunted at the idiocy of emotional bodily responses and immediately stormed back to his station, resolutely ignoring John who was now having a hard time controlling his laughter.

"John!" Sherlock snapped in anger.

Right on cue, John burst into spontaneous giggles. "I'm sorry- you just looked like such a confused puppy."

Sherlock merely offered an empty glare at him in return, secretly just glad that he had managed to make John feel even the tiniest better than he was feeling beforehand. Sherlock Holmes saw that as a win.

"Where is your car now?" Sherlock asked after a moment's silence, staring at John's exposed throat and the bob of his adam's apple as his head hung back over the edge of his chair, feet up on his desk.

"I managed to make it to the car park, _just."_ John laughed without humour. "I half-thought I'd have to get out and push it to school. It practically started coughing up bolts as soon as I pulled out of my drive."

Sherlock frowned to himself, reaching for his phone deposited at the bottom of his suit-trouser pocket, thumbing the screen to open and compose a text whilst still focused on John.

* * *

 _"You've reached the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. You have less than 8 seconds to think of something void of idiocy and predictability to say, if this is too much of a challenge for you, please press 'end' now."_

 _BEEP_

"Sherlock, if you miss one more doctor's appointment I will personally send a squad of secret service agents to break into that ridiculous school and set fire to the entirely new refurbished science labs, in the hopes you will accept some of your actual responsibilities instead of spending the entirety of your time in the company of hydrochloric acid and that entirely unimportant retired soldier you have become so enamoured by and have been attempting to hide from me for weeks now. You have been warned."

* * *

Sherlock slammed his phone down in anger, chipping the corner of the metal casing in the process.

"What?" Lestrade asked, speaking around mouth full of food, reclined back in his chair.

" _Mycroft_." Sherlock grunted in return, pulling at the fraying thread of the button at his shirt cuff.

"Mycroft..." Greg paused. "That's your brother, right?"

Sherlock squinted at him suspiciously.

"What? I was just making conversation!" Greg spluttered, cheeks reddening as he pulled his feet down from his desk and dusted doughnut crumbs from his lap.

"Well don't, it's annoying."

Greg rolled his eyes in return and stood, moving over to the window with his hands on his hips, looking out at the tarmac that was darkened with puddles of rain. "Any closer to deciding university plans?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, tapping away on his phone until Greg calls his name again.

"I haven't had time to think about it" Sherlock excuses absently, steeping his fingers underneath his chin.

"You know the deadline is approaching for your statement." Greg squinted to make out the faces of the teachers on duty outside.

"Yes." he replied with a sigh, his eyes sliding closed.

* * *

"A school trip?" Sherlock repeated, voice dripping with disdain.

John sighed, "Yes, Sherlock. A school trip. You have to attend, no skipping out, it contributes towards your statistics for the exam." He continued laying the named folders along the bench in places of his students who were in his next class.

"There is no version of this trip that exists with me attending."

"You're going." John doesn't bother gritting his teeth, he sing-songs his replies, knowing full well that Sherlock would eventually cave in and attend after sulking about it for a couple of days anyway.

"John, I am not-"

"Hey boys" Greg swung around the door to John's classroom, looking suspiciously cheerful in Sherlock's eyes. Before Sherlock could voice his complaints to his tutor about the form of torture John was attempting to enforce on him by compelling him to attend the biology trip, Lestrade began to speak.

"Hey Johnny- boy," Sherlock internally winced at the nickname. "I was just wondering if you knew what time we have to be there at the coaches for on Friday?"

Something in Sherlock clicked. "Wha- Lestrade! Please don't tell me you've been roped into this waste of time trip too?"

"Excited, then?" Lestrade mocked, turning his gaze to John who's shoulders were shaking with laughter, whilst he stretched to wipe the whiteboard clean.

"What are you doing on a Biology trip?"

"Oh, I volunteered." Lestrade smiled, taking a bite out an apple he'd been shining on his thigh.

"You're a public services teacher!" Sherlock complained, not keen on having his un-official guardian trailing around after him berating him every chance he gets.

"Exactly, and every Friday morning, I have three different periods of hormonal year eights. A.K.A my personal hell which I would like to avoid if given the chance." John chuckled in agreement, pulling a stool from behind the door and settling on it, his feet barely reaching the floor. "Jumped at the first offer I got to chaperone." Lestrade continued.

"Don't blame you, mate" John raised his eyebrows.

"Well, Have fun without me." Sherlock raised his nose slightly, turning from the conversation back to a thick textbook he had lugged into John's classroom at the start of lunch, his head buried in the pages so intently that he'd nearly knocked John's coffee out of his hands from their collision.

"You're coming, Sherlock." John called from the other end of the classroom where he had gone to ram shut a faulty cupboard which persistently swung back open with a squeak. John frowned.

"No."

"You're coming," Lestrade forced. "It's compulsory for A2 Biology students, otherwise you won't even get an A-level."

"Fine by me" Sherlock drawled without looking up, his long fingers tracing over the letters of a bolded paragraph in the textbook.

"Not fine by me-" John demanded, his voice pushing more authority. "No one in my class is going to fail Biology. I won't allow for it. So _yes_ , you are coming, Sherlock. If I have to drag you there myself."

Sherlock's eyes snapped to his teacher behind him, his attention focused on Sherlock now, having abandoned the faulty storage. With John determined not to look away, and Sherlock determined to deduce everything about John in that particular moment, the atmosphere was electric.

Not that Lestrade noticed. He practically skipped away happily, "Good, now that's sorted. I'd better return to I.T. See you later, John. Sherlock- don't forget to email me your statement tonight."

With the hint of a grin gracing John's stubbled face, he shook his head as if not quite believing himself the intense situation they'd just found themselves in with another teacher in the room. They'd bickered like an old married couple.

Sherlock just began to plot for possible ways to convince John to make an exception, though knowing deep down there was no way in hell he would be able to deter John Watson from getting what he wanted.

* * *

John knew he was being too optimistic by convincing himself that Sherlock would actually attend the biology trip. He shook his head at Greg who was mouthing at him from across the car park, the bustle of students' chatter muting communication.

He reached around in his back pocket for his teacher's badge, staring down at the slow ticking of his watch. He looked back over to Greg, who was in discussion with a younger looking woman that John assumed was a new teaching assistant, just the same height as the students with mousy brown hair and sporting a knitted jumper.

John was about to go over to introduce himself when he spotted a familiar shadow on the ground behind him.

"John," Sherlock acknowledged quietly, stepping into the light of the sun.

John turned to face him, and then immediately regretted doing so.

Sherlock was dressed in a slim-fitting navy suit with thin lapels and a fresh white shirt with the collar open at the throat, exposing a freckle to the left of Sherlock's adam's apple, the one John was having a very hard time looking away from.

The stretch of fitted material over the muscles of his chest was tenting the shirt somewhat, buttons straining slightly; and John was having a difficult time remembering that Sherlock was his student, since he looked like he had just stepped off a model runway, his dark curls tousled by the wind, cheekbones sharp as ever, but his eyes soft and focused.

"Hi" John squeaked, blinking and clearing his throat, trying to drag his eyes away from the tightness of the crotch area of his dress-trousers. Sherlock's lips thinned for a moment, his hand tightening on the strap of his brown and battered leather satchel which was slung high over his shoulder. "You decided to show up then?"

"I could hardly disobey direct orders from my tutor and my teacher. Besides, Mycroft threatened to confiscate my taxidermy collection if I didn't come."

John nodded dizzily, desperately looking anywhere but directly into Sherlock's pale eyes, in literal fear of falling into them.

"I see Lestrade still has no qualms about abandoning his I.T. class." Sherlock nodded his head to his tutor's direction, his hands in his pockets, hips slightly pushed forwards, stood at a right-angle to John who mirrored his pose.

John hummed in response as Sherlock swung his satchel underneath his arm, pushed towards his back. "Who's the new girl?" John asked, referring to the lady who was gesticulating wildly to a confused Lestrade.

"I would have thought you'd know, considering she's a teacher." Sherlock's baritone voice replied.

"Oh, so she _is_ a teacher?" John wondered aloud, noticing how they were both standing apart from the general gaggle of students who were gathered by the coaches. "What else can you deduce?"

Sherlock squinted slightly, focussing on the figure. "She's young, just out of university studying forensic science. Only child, recent break-up and enjoys dissections. She joined two days ago, reduced timetable, she's on a teacher training course, acting as a TA for the next 3 months until returning to Milton Keynes in April."

John looked back over to the girl, seeing that she was now staring back...straight at Sherlock. "Right...interesting."

Sherlock squinted back at the young woman who was smoothing her hair down with a small smile.

John turned suddenly, turning his back to the woman and shoving his shoulder slightly into Sherlock's, "I think somebody is interested" he says, close to Sherlock's ear, his head tilting in Molly's direction.

Sherlock made a noncommittal hum, turning his attention back to John, their eyes meeting. John tried not to stare for too long, but the paleness and pure blue of Sherlock's eyes were pulling him in, so much that he found his own appreciatively drifting downwards.

* * *

"So how come I haven't seen you around the staff room or anything?" Lestrade continued, glancing over to a bickering group of boys, wondering whether their jostling looked serious enough for him to intervene.

"Oh, I only started here a couple of days ago. I haven't really seen much of anyone yet, I only know Cerys, I've been assisting in her class."

"Cerys Farren? The physics teacher?"

"Yeah, key stage 4" she smiles in return, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

Lestrade nods in return, his eyes drifting over to John and Sherlock, standing apart at the bricked steps leading up to the car park.

"Oh- Are there more teachers chaperoning? The tall one, over there...in the suit? Who is he?" her voice raised slightly, her hand coming up to her neck.

Lestrade snorted indelicately, a smile filling his face. "Oh, he wishes he had that much power, no, he's not a teacher, that's Sherlock Holmes, one of my students."

"Oh..." The young woman replied, her voice shrill. "He really does look much older..."

Lestrade noticed John glancing over to them, standing shorter than Sherlock, he really did not look like a teacher compared to the young Holmes. "That one there next to him is John, he teaches Biology. He's a doctor, actually."

The young teacher makes a high-pitched hum in response, her eyes not leaving the tall darkened figure of Sherlock. Lestrade rolled his eyes, realising that Sherlock and her probably didn't have many years between them at all.

Eventually, Lestrade managed to pull her attention back to the register lists, where they began to herd the students onto the separate coaches. He noticed an absence of a couple of the lists, remembering he'd split them with John that morning.

He turned to find his colleague, noticing he and Sherlock still stood in the same area, only turned towards each other, seemingly talking intensely about something. Considering calling John over, he raised his hand, only to stop mid-way.

They were...staring at each-other. Greg frowned.

Desperately trying not to dwell too much on the weight he felt at the bottom of his stomach at catching the two of them in such an inappropriate proximity, he raised his voice to summon John.

* * *

Sherlock's hands were itching to touch him, to grab John's in his own, but he bit his tongue, shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

"John!"

 _Damn, Lestrade._ Sherlock gritted his teeth, his head snapping out of John's gaze, sending an annoyed grimace over to his tutor.

John panicked, almost falling over with the speed in which he pulled himself away from Sherlock, envious at Sherlock's constant cool and collected exterior.

He flexed his hands at his sides, heading straight over to Greg. "Alright?" he called.

"Yeah," Greg replied, head down, watching Sherlock in his peripheral vision as he wandered over to the rear end of the bus. "Just checking the registers."

John nods jerkily, mentally berating himself for being so suspicious.

"This is Molly, by the way. Molly, this is John." Lestrade gestured over to the young teacher who appeared to be daydreaming.

"Oh- Hello! Molly Hooper, lovely to meet you, I'm here on placement."

"John Watson," John held out a hand to shake, "Likewise, I've heard you're assisting in Physics? We might be brushing shoulders, we've got new labs all down the first floor."

"Oh, yes, I've heard! The facilities look fantastic." She nodded enthusiastically, dropping John's hand.

Lestrade had moved to the crowds, reading lists out of which students were to mount which coach, John's eyes were inevitably drawn to the isolated figure moving the gravel around on the floor with the toe of his dress shoe.

Sherlock looked up, blinked at John, and moved further into the crowds where John lost him.

* * *

Due to the excess of biology students in the year, they had all been piled on to separate coaches with allocated teachers. Sherlock had been forced on to the first coach and shoved his way onto a lone seat, purposefully storing his bag on the seat next to him so nobody could sit and annoy him for the 40 minute journey.

Greg had stepped onto the other coach, leaving John to deal with Molly. He waited for his class to pile onto the coach before taking the teachers seats at the front.

"Ready to go, mate" he nodded to the driver and stepped into the aisle as the vehicle pulled away from the kerb.

"Right- you know the deal, no funny business, we'll be there in about 40 minutes. Don't chuck your rubbish on the floor or you'll be staying behind to clean the entire coach after school." John's eyes were inevitably drawn to the group of troublemakers huddled at the back of the bus, shooting them a meaningful warning look before taking his seat back next to Molly. "Oh, and make sure your seatbelts are on!" he called over his shoulder before fastening his own.

"So-" Molly started after John had got settled. "How long have you been teaching here for?"

John let out a puff of air, "Wow, feels like centuries," he laughed. "Not long actually, I came here after being relieved from military duty so- a couple of years ago I trained to teach."

Molly was startled by a shout from behind them, John rolling his eyes at the usual antics of the students. "Oh, Greg mentioned you were a soldier?" she squeaked with interest.

"Military doctor." John nodded. "Where are you coming from then? University of..."

"Roehampton," she supplied.

"Ah, couple of mates of mine came from there. I've heard good things."

Molly nodded enthusiastically, as John seemed to notice she responded to most things with eagerness. "I love it there"

John turned for a moment at hearing noise coming from the back, letting his eyes fall on Sherlock who was sitting with his headphones in staring down at his phone, his curly hair falling over his forehead and onto his face.

"This is your class then?" Molly continued, happily jabbering on to herself, staring out the window at the passing traffic. "I have to say, some of them look so much older than eighteen. That one- Sherlock, was it? Strange name. Greg told me about him, I could hardly believe he wasn't a teacher when he told me, he looks-"

"Yes," John interrupted, something like jealousy rising to his chest. "He often comes across older than he is."

"He looks about early 20s, same as me- " She shook her head. "Gosh, when I was eighteen I still looked thirteen."

John suddenly realised that there couldn't be less than 4 years between the two of them, knowing that there was at least 10 between Sherlock and himself. "Hmm, didn't we all." He muttered in reply, desperately trying to mask his bitterness at Molly's clear interest in Sherlock.

* * *

"What the hell is he doing?" Greg muttered to himself.

"Huh?" John shook himself out of his daze, the teachers and assistants were leaning against a farmer's fence, surrounded by students' neglected bags thrown haphazardly onto the long grass.

After reaching the nature reserve site they had booked into, they were lead straight into an over-run field bordering smatterings of forest containing ridiculously tall trees.

"Sherlock," Greg replied, spotting the figure in the distance, trudging about in the uneven grass.

Instead of merging with other equally bored biology students throwing around their quadrats onto patches of grass and scribbling statistics onto clipboards, Sherlock had ventured close to a running stream, and was attempting to cross it, balancing on his tip-toes.

"I specifically said not to go past that sign post!" Greg huffed, marching off towards the suited figure.

John smirked and followed. "Since when does Sherlock let anybody tell him what to do?"

Greg grunted in return, the wind sending his fringe flying upwards, the lapels of his coat flapping. "I'm going to kill him if he goes near that forest. I'm not tracking him down, he can sleep here tonight for all I care!"

"Sir! Can you come here please?" John was distracted by three girls from his biology class, who were stood looking extremely confused. He nodded and walked towards them, his hands in his pockets, looking wistfully back to Lestrade's retreating figure towards Sherlock.

* * *

"Sherlock!" Greg shouted, the wind carrying most of the sound away from his student's ears. "What the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock glared at the tutor over his shoulder, seeing his figure trudging towards him. He turned back to where he was crouched at the edge of the stream, calculating the speed of river flow in his head at-

"Sherlock!"

"What?!" He snapped, noticing the teacher was stood directly above him now, hands on hips, hair flying everywhere.

"What part of don't go past the sign post did you not understand?" He wheezed slightly from the exertion of speed-walking across the grass, and pushed himself further into Sherlock's personal space, intent on seeing what he was crouched over. "I- Sherlock! Put that down! My god-"

"Why? It's still alive, I can save it." Sherlock rises to his feet, exposing the bottom of his suit trousers which were now splashed with mud. He cupped a small bluish-black bird in both of his hands, one of its wings broken in an array of dishevelled feathers sticking out at all angles, its small beak opening and closing weakly.

"It could be infected or something!" Lestrade gesticulates, slapping Sherlock on the back, "Put it down!"

"No-" He glared back stubbornly, marching away back in the direction of which they came. Greg followed, hopping over the sludge of soft mud surrounding the bank of the river.

"It's going to die anyway," He ran after his student, noticing John in the distance turning away from the students that had gained his attention, "Sherlock!"

Sherlock was determinedly walking over to John and away from Lestrade, heading towards where he had left his bag when they'd entered the field.

John frowned at the pair in the distance, seeing Sherlock cradling something fluffy to his chest with both hands cupped, long legs carrying him quickly away from Greg, who looked red in the face stumbling after him and waving his hands in the air.

"Sherlock, what-"

"Lestrade is being an idiot." He stated, walking swiftly past John and towards the pile of bags, to which he dug out his satchel that sat primly against the fence near Miss Hooper's tiny feet.

"Oh!" She gasped with surprise as Sherlock dove towards his bag, pulling out a scarf that had been rolled up inside. "I- sorry, erm, Sherlock"

"Sherlock-" John's disapproving voice sounded from behind him, getting closer, while Greg stayed behind attempting to convince other students who were gathering round to see what all the fuss was about to return to their sampling.

"Is that a bird?" Molly hopped down from the fence, squinting at the animal in Sherlock's large hands.

John resisted placing a hand on Sherlock's moving shoulder as he crouched at his feet carefully wrapping the injured bird in his soft scarf and returned it to the safety of his chest.

Sherlock stood again, facing John. "I need a thin cotton bandage, some spring water and an elastic band." he deadpanned.

"Wha- wait a minute. What is it- it looks dead to me?" John pushed at the material of Sherlock's scarf covering the bird's head.

Sherlock grunted and pulled away, pushing at John's intrusive hands. "It's not dead, I can save it. It's wing is broken. If you would just get me the resources I need-"

"Maybe the lodge at reception would have something for it?" Molly interrupted, her voice small.

Sherlock whirled around, his long coat whipping at John's shins. "Finally, somebody who speaks some sense." He bit out, shoving past a blushing Molly Hooper who was shifting on her feet and mumbling, and stormed up the cobbled path leading to the lodge.

John sighs in frustration and tears after him, walking a couple of paces behind his student, long legs be damned. "Where did you even find it anyway?"

"I heard it crying when I was in the field, I had to jump over the river to reach it, it was wedged underneath a fallen branch at the foot of a tree. It would have drowned." Sherlock explained, words flowing out at the speed of light.

"Okay- well, here, there's the lodge- We can leave it with them, I'm sure they can help it"

" _I_ can help it, John." He hissed. "If people would stop getting in my way as usual-"

"Hey-" John snapped, tugging at Sherlock's coat at arm's length. "Watch who you think you're talking to."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, remembering the situation they were in. "Yes. I'm sorry. Now can we go!?"

"Yes. I've already said yes"

John holds the door of the wooden lodge open for Sherlock, who storms in guns blazing demanding all numbers of equipment from the staff on hand. John trails immediately after, apologising for the rudeness of his student and asking politely if they have any vets or medical resources on site.

It was decided after Greg reached the hut that Sherlock was to leave the bird in the capable hands of the vet who had been called into the lodge and was working on stabilising the bird. Sherlock had already criticised the man's technique when wrapping the bird's wing and attempted to butt in and re-wrap it himself.

That is until John intervened- again. ("Sherlock, out of all of us here, who is a qualified vet? Not you. So get moving, leave it to the professionals.")

It was an angered Holmes that stormed off ahead to the coach an hour later when all students and teachers had re-assembled after lunch-time, he had spent his own lunch waiting outside the wood-cabin waiting for word from the vets and neglecting to eat anything at all, even when John had bought his satchel back to him.

* * *

"-Don't know what he was thinking, the silly prick"

"I don't know," John sighs, looking over to where Sherlock was staring out across the field solemnly.

"I mean- one minute he's ripping the shit out of you, telling you this and that about everyone you've ever known and-" Greg paused, taking a swig of his water and gesticulating in wonder "- how both your brother's neighbours are drug addicts and your girlfriend has cheated on you twice this month, and the next he's running off like Indiana Jones on an adventure and saving the life of a fucking dying animal!"

John let his gaze pass the silhouette of Sherlock's slim form, watching the slices of soft reds and oranges melt into the blue hue of the sky in the background, the dark dishevelled outline of Sherlock's curls just meeting the line of the horizon. John felt his hooded eyes water slightly at the jolt in his chest, sending his heartbeat wracking wildly when he caught sight of Sherlock's face turned looking back at him.

"Let's not mention this to any senior staff anyway, can't be arsed to explain the specifics of spending an hour trying to convince a student to leave a half-dead animal alone." Greg continued talking to himself. "Just going to sign us all out in reception, get Sherlock on the bus will ya? Other students are on already." He slapped John on the back, retiring to the log cabin and ducking his head to fit underneath the lopsided doorway.

John barely heard the voice speaking to him as he walked towards Sherlock, just nodded in Greg's general direction and tried to catch his breath. His eyes fell to Sherlock's hands, previously in his pockets or skittering along the splintered wood of the gate in front of him, now hanging loosely at his sides, fingers blocking the light of the setting sun.

How easy would it be to take those hands into his own? To thread his fingers through the suited man's and tug him away from all of this. Take him somewhere new, anywhere, anywhere he wanted.

"Should we be going?" Sherlock's surprisingly softened voice broke through John's internal monologue. His face turned back to the sunset, as the sky faded slowly towards darkness.

John cleared his throat, watery eyes skittering away from the young man's face, looking at anything but Sherlock. "Um, yeah-" He clenched his hands at his sides. "Lestrade's gone to check out, so-"

Sherlock nodded, his eyebrows raised slightly, eyes still unfocused and hazy, until he blinked and set his full attention on John.

John felt as though someone had filled his shoes with lead, stood unmoving as if Sherlock had pinned him straight to the spot with just one look. "I'm sorry," John said quietly, knowing the world wasn't there to listen. "About the bird"

Sherlock stared at him. "Animals die every day, John."

"Well, yes. I know that, I just-"

Sherlock nods and moves towards him, allowing the back of his knuckles to brush against John's momentarily before asking where the coaches were parked.

They trudged back together in silence, putting a significant distance between themselves when the vehicles came into sight, clambering onto separate coaches and settling into cold uncomfortable seats.


	5. Author's Note - This story has moved!

Hi everyone!

Thank you for all being so kind and appreciative of myself and this story, I understand how long you have been waiting.

For any of you who don't already know, this story has got multiple more chapters on another publishing site Archive of our Own (AO3)

 **Here is the link to Fire and Ice on AO3 if you wish to continue reading this story (remove any spaces):** archive of our own works/5663890/chapters/13046002

Or, if you'd like, just search for me on there, my username is **holmesbros**

I apologise for any inconvenience, I just don't really use this site any more, so I find it easier to let you know where to find F&I so you don't miss out on the story.

Thanks again everyone! Be sure to leave your love on AO3!

\- Ellie


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